


Straying

by 111 (Insert)



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! GX
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Banter, Card Games, Flirting, Future Fic, M/M, Slow Burn, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2019-09-12 07:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 219,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16869061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insert/pseuds/111
Summary: The next time Manjoume saw him, Judai had a head full of spirits and a desperation that almost showed through.





	1. The First Turn

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set roughly 4-5 years after season 4, contains spoilers for the entirety of Yu-Gi-Oh! GX, and takes some liberties with how the Pro League, the spirit world, and Judai’s powers are portrayed. I might write a longer note later on which episodes I’m specifically building off of. Oh, and a massive shout out to the Yugioh Wikia and its card database!
> 
> I am basing this off the original/sub version of GX, but some stuff from the dub will probably make its way in here anyways. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!

\---

When he came to, everything hurt.

His throat was by far the worst, every breath rasping down it like something coiled and barbed, drawing out new, intense kinds of pain that he could only try to push away and ignore. The hands slapped over his face were his own, and the joints of his fingers were locked in place, as if pulling them away would reveal something worse than the sterile laboratory and its searing fluorescent lights.

He had _definitely_ seen worse than that, considering that his spirit partners were a bunch of Ojamas.

Lowering his hands was step one, and he stumbled over it for what felt like hours but passed as seconds, other hands flitting over his bare arms and chest and removing the electrodes there, the conductive gel staying behind in tacky, cold patches. If he focused on that, then the pain seemed to lessen, his next breath easier by some small, fragile margin.

“Ahh! I-Is he…d-dead?”

“No way, you dummy! Our boss is Manjoume Thunder!”

“Uhh… D-Did we make him…?”

“Could you,” Manjoume ground out, every syllable a shard digging into his mouth, “just _stay_ quiet?”

And they did after a few whimpers. That left only the constant buzz of the human voices around him, underlaid by the sharp clicks of shoes and mindless whirls of machinery. Someone was giving the report for that session – the words ‘unexpected’ sounding over and over, his name swapped out for an anonymous identification number – and guilt curled in his stomach then, something to deal with later.

When his stiff hands fell away, the world came bursting in. The rigid lines of the stark, white table. The rustles of lab coats as Dr. Krenshaw’s assistants moved away, the last lead of two electrodes folded away by clear, synthetic gloves. On the opposite wall, the readings from his own body were splayed out, their sharp spikes given in thick, red lines.

The gentle brush of a hand on his shoulder was from Dr. Krenshaw, and she spoke in an even, measured way. “We were too ambitious this time. That’s what should be acknowledged now, more than anything else.”

“R-Right,” Manjoume said, and he wanted to drag himself off the chair, throw on his shirt and shoes, and make for the door with his usual confidence on display, his persona worn with perfect ease. But, taking another unsteady gasp, that was beyond him.

Like all employees of Industrial Illusions, Dr. Krenshaw had a massive pin of Funny Bunny on the front of her jacket, her designation listed below it in slanting characters – _Head of Research, Dimensional Boundaries Division_.

“Wait here. I’ll get you some water.”

“I’d prefer a caffè latte, extra milk.”

Dr. Krenshaw arched one grey eyebrow. “That…can be arranged.”

He rose up from the examination chair, his arms used as supports, and he did not miss the way she angled closer. But the attention was unnecessary. He yanked his dress shirt off the desk and started on the buttons. His fingers, numb still, slipped over them.

He began slowly, every syllable like a low ache.

“Dr. Krenshaw, I apologize for what happened today. Any difficulties this causes, they should be mine to bear.”

“There won’t be any difficulties,” she stated, and he glanced up at that. At eye level, the Funny Bunny pin winked at him. “The schedule for our research will not be altered in any way. If anything, we can refine that schedule from here. More importantly, we can take steps to ensure that this never happens again, as it goes without saying that your health is our highest priority.”

“Obviously. I _am_ an important person,” he added, and she gave him a rare smile, the hand on his shoulder lifting.

\---

In his experience, the Pegasus J. Crawford school of interior design involved using raw stone, wall-length oil paintings, dark mahogany panels, and sprawling velvet couches in buildings that most other companies would make as generic as possible, especially in the levels open to the public. With Dr. Krenshaw, Manjoume took a sleek, modern elevator from the 14th floor of Industrial Illusions’s West Research Center to the ground floor, and its transparent doors clicked open in front of a massive tapestry, a sixteen-century original. A few meters down, there hung a parody of it that Pegasus had commissioned, the unicorns and lions replaced with numerous Funny Bunnys and Ruff Ruff McDoggs.

They crossed the reception area, and a few curious stares followed him, his all-black coat like a declaration of his identity. Ojama Yellow took up its inside pocket, and Ojama Green and Black floated after it, the ragged edges trailing over them.

The café extending down from the terrace was bordered by thick green hedges and knight-like statues with their helmets raised, the banners they held bearing the Industrial Illusions logo. The table he chose was in the far corner, a tangled shape of wrought-iron, and for a long time, he stayed silent, one finger tapping the top of the table while his eyes stayed on the sky overhead – spotless, blue.

He had a flight in two hours. He could sleep off the exhaustion then.

“The Ojamas are terrified of harpies,” he said, and the little spirits around him bristled in confirmation, Ojama Yellow tugging on his own eyestalks with a sharp wail. “The attack happened generations ago. Judging by their stories, wherever the harpies came from had to be in the east, and I set out in that direction, just to see if I could find anything.”

“Yes, like we had discussed,” Dr. Krenshaw confirmed, and Manjoume took a long sip of his drink, almost too hot still. He closed his eyes, and _there_ was the reddening dirt of Ojama Country and the endless hills that spread out from it. A strong wind had channelled through the gaps between them.

“The strain was…not noticeable at first,” he admitted, shoving back his long bangs. Ojama Green and Black swung their bare feet over the side of the table, Yellow still balled in his pocket. “It snuck up on me, and by the time I had started to come back, I already knew what would happen next.”

As expected, Dr. Krenshaw took some time to respond, a sharp contrast between her pale, drawn face and that of the massive pin she wore. Toon Monsters were sprawled across their cups, all stark colours and wicked grins. “Each session moves us closer to a greater understanding of the gap between our worlds, and yet that understanding is still so small in the grand scheme of things, isn’t it?” She paused. Ojama Yellow has started to snore. “Manjoume, what I mean to say is that our opportunities for research are endless. We can reduce the strain this causes you. We can lessen its chance of occurring.”

“Make no mistake,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not the type to complain about hardships. If I was, I wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“That’s…one way of looking at it,” she replied, and he shrugged. It was also the truth.

The cracked leaves that fell and drifted across the tiles were dark red, their pointed edges curling in, some split along their vein-like seams. Jagged shadows trailed them as delicate shards of grey, and even the brush of contact with the tiles broke the leaves further, sent out more shards.

“Manjoume?” Dr. Krenshaw had stood up, and she waved one hand to keep him seated. “It should be two weeks. I’ll message your manager, and, from all of the team, best of luck in the tournament.”

“Tell that bastard Pegasus he still needs to sponsor me.”

He watched her pass under a stone archway and disappear through the gilded doors, and then he stared at nothing in particular, one finger tapping against his Toon Dragon cup. Other conversations thrummed around him, as did the strange, clipped noises of the duel spirits that lingered. Charubin the Fire Knight took up position by one statue, its controller a small boy who clutched an oversized horse toy and ran between the tables. Faith Bird circled above, its blue wings spread wide, and it dived when a group of businessmen rose, eager to follow the leader in a black suit, his tie the same piercing blue.

But then he heard another pair of wings.

It had been two years since he had seen Yuki Judai, and even then, wiping from the sweat from his face as he had torn through another duel, the stage lights searing, he had recognized that sound. Another leaf parted as it fell through the air, arching for a moment that dragged on and on, and Winged Kuriboh passed through it with a bright chirp. One curl of red brushed the ground, fragile enough that it split again.

Something pulsed in his head like static.

The chair across from his own scrapped across the tile when Judai pulled it back, and Manjoume watched him, aware that the Ojamas were babbling in his ears, just stupid and pointless things, and that the static had thickened. It filled his head.

“Some rival you turned out to be,” he muttered, his eyes darting up, and Judai just smiled even wider, all white teeth and curved dimples. “I’ve started to forget what your cards even look like, and that’s just unforgivable, Judai.”

“Ah, I can’t say the same. How could I ever forget these little guys?” And Ojama Green squealed when Judai poked at his stomach, Black making a run for the opposite side of the table and barricading himself behind a salt shaker. Yellow continued to snore.

The hedge behind them cast a jagged shadow, and part of it passed over the sharp angles of Judai’s face, leaf-shapes pressing into the hollow of his throat. Last time, Judai had been there in the crowd, almost hidden by it, and when their eyes had locked, the distance between them had felt thin, almost like it did now.

He needed to focus, and he started by draining what was left of his drink.

“So… You wanna buy me lunch?”

Manjoume immediately choked, the cup slamming against its saucer. “Do I _what_?!”

“Hey, it’s just an idea! Don’t look at me like that!”

“Like _what_?”

“You got a line right here,” Judai said, tapping the space between his eyebrows, and no human being had the right to be _that_ charming when they were taunting the great Manjoume Thunder, feared Pro Duelist and member of the prestigious 24 to 48 bracket. Out of principle, he almost stood up and walked away.

Almost.

And somehow he ended up buying Judai lunch, the special a massive triple-decker sandwich that Judai managed to shove it in his mouth without sending bread and cheese over the _entire_ table. When Judai reached for the salt shaker, it was with a wink and apology to Ojama Black, who had already run for cover inside Manjoume’s sleeve, two bare Ojama feet wiggling as the little spirit burrowed its way in.

He knew what Judai would ask next.

“This isn’t really your scene, is it?” Judai leaned back in his chair and tilted his head to the side. “A bunch of scientists and businessmen…”

“It’s not exactly yours either.”

“Yeah, you’re right about that,” he admitted, and then his smile turned even brighter, the shadows sliding away from it as he leaned back even further. “Still, out of the two of us, you’re the more interesting one, Manjoume Thunder.”

From what he heard through the scattered members of their alumni, Judai had been involved in more than a few mysterious incidents since graduation, all signs pointing to the presence of duel spirits and some to the dangers that lurked beneath them, the flickers of the powerful, ancient forces that filled the gap between their worlds. Johan knew the most by far, but he left too many words unsaid.

“So, you here for a meeting with Pegasus or something?”

Two small scars dashed the sharpest point of Judai’s jawline, grey-white against his skin.

Manjoume held his stare.

“You’re not the only one with friends who can walk through walls, Judai,” Manjoume said, and Judai, smirking, waited for him to continue. “If there’s something you want to know about this place, then just ask me about it. But,” he added, his voice even, “I have commitments here that I won’t break. Understand that.”

“Now _that_ sounded like Manjoume Thunder.”

“Uh, yeah? Who else would I sound like?”

“We should duel,” Judai said next, and Manjoume just stared at him, aware of the static gathering in his head and shifting as Judai’s smirk angled even higher. “The stakes don’t have to be too extreme, but, well….” Wind ran through Judai’s bangs. A half-circle of green pushed through one of his eyes, the other a deep orange. “I’m curious about what you’re doing here.”

With a high wail, Ojama Yellow burst out of his coat, a sleeping cap rolling off his head, and landed face-first on the table. “Y-You can’t do that, Boss! You signed that paper for Dr. Kr- Mhmmph!!”

“Shhh! This guy can hear you!” Green blurted out, and he slowly removed his hand from Yellow’s mouth, the smaller spirit heaving as he took in a deep breath.

“O-Oh. Right.”

A confidentially agreement, one that Manjoume intended to keep.

“You can put in an information request at the front desk.”

Judai pouted. “Seriously? That’s it?”

“Like I said earlier, if you were even listening,” Manjoume added, “I’ve made my commitments to this place. Go figure it out yourself if you’re so ‘curious’.”

Although he _probably_ shouldn’t have said the last part, that intensity returning to Judai’s expression again, flickering over it like a thin shadow. And, because bashing his head against the proverbial wall that was Yuki Judai had given him a headache, Manjoume then flagged down the waitress and ordered a black coffee, extra strong. During their academy days, he had solved the same problem by storming out of rooms, challenging random people to duels, and ranting at the Ojamas for what had to be hours at a time, but none of those actions suited a professional duelist.

Caffeine, he had discovered, solved most problems.

At least temporarily.

In this case, _very_ temporarily, as, just by sitting there and existing, Judai found another way to annoy him.

“What’s with the haircut?”

“Hmm? This?” Judai ran a hand up the back of his neck, the hair passing under it short. Asymmetrical bangs parted over his forehead. “I was thinking of starting a ponytail, but then I’d look too much like Daitokuji-sensei.”

“It’s too high maintenance for someone like you.”

“Ah, am I really that kind of person?”

The more annoying part was the height Judai had gained on him – at least five centimeters, maybe even ten – and Manjoume decided to keep his mouth shut about that.

Sprawled in the chair across from him, Judai was a difficult person to look away from, his easy confidence visible, spread across the low line of his shoulders. The jeans he wore were ripped even more than Manjoume’s oldest pair, the knees split and crossed with loose white threads, and streaked with faded patches, a long black stitch along one seam. His open bomber jacket was in a similar condition, its thick grey collar worn down and fraying at the edges, and the black shirt underneath had at least two holes in it.

“You also need a new style,” Manjoume muttered into the rim of his coffee cup, and Judai raised one eyebrow at him. “Although, you _did_ pick the right person to imitate.”

It took Judai a few seconds, and then he burst out laughing.

\---

But Manjoume still had a plane to catch.

“Oh, no problem,” was Judai’s reaction, unphased. He had somehow ended up with a second sandwich and a large coffee, all on Manjoume’s credit card. A dangerous precedent. “So, you’ll be back in a few days or…?”

“With my current schedule, I need at least two weeks.”

Judai’s chair almost tipped over. “W-What?! _Why_?”

“I have a tournament in Berlin, the BCGRP invitational. After that, there’s the fanclub meeting in Domino City, that press conference in…” He shook his head. “Whatever. The point is that I have things to do.”

“Two _weeks_ ,” Judai whined, his forehead connecting with the table. “We haven’t even dueled yet!”

“You’ll probably survive.”

“Sure, but…” And then Judai shot up to his feet, startling the Ojamas enough that Yellow was knocked off the table, Green and Black following seconds later with their own shrieks. Winged Kuriboh – serene, familiar with its owner’s outbursts – bobbed overheard like a balloon on a string, swaying with the slight wind. And Judai had taken a step closer, his sudden grin wide. “I think I’m curious enough to have it figured out by then.”

Manjoume sighed. “How are you _still_ this immature?”

“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘determined’.”

“No, it’s not.” He adjusted his sleeves, the ends rolled up. “We can talk about this when I get back, provided that you’re not in some other country fighting…demons or…whatever.” It sounded plausible, and Judai just shrugged and matched his strides, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“I’ll be here for a while, so we can work something out.”

In mid-air, another red leaf turned. It cracked open.

“If you don’t have anything better to do, then drive with me,” Manjoume said. “I can make sure you have my number that way.”

And somehow, as if by a series of reflexes, he ended up in the back of a company car, the driver on a direct course for the international airport, and Judai taking up the seat by the opposite window, his profile traced by the flickering sunlight. The outdated cellphone with a broken red case that Manjoume tapped through was not his own, and its ‘Contacts’ list, as he discovered, was empty.

“I assume you’re staying in the city.”

“Probably,” Judai said, and Winged Kuriboh let out a low trill, one that made Judai’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh. Guess we’re staying in the city because a certain someone’s had enough of camping.”

“Do you always take orders from that fuzzball?”

“I’ll have you know,” Judai began, a boyish smile flashing, “that Winged Kuriboh is the wisest of fuzzballs.”

“That’s not much of a competition,” Manjoume mumbled, and he passed the phone back, his profile spanning its narrow screen.

Judai’s eyebrows rose even higher.

“There’s…a lot of lightning bolts in your ID.”

“As someone with the default username and no profile picture, _you_ don’t get to judge me,” Manjoume snapped, and Judai pocketed the phone without another complaint.

From the highway, the city of Fortunis passed in a blur of white, grey, and blue, the ocean curving away from the sleek skyscrapers and the roads that contained them, its deep colour caught and reflected by the windows that lined every tall, tapered building, that glittered like wet scales in the light. From this distance, the massive arenas and studios of the North American Pro League rose as indistinct, rigid shapes, and he answered the question Judai had for him, something about the latest ban list for official matches.

The first time he had dueled in this city, he had lost thirteen times in a row, almost enough to make that nightmare he had seen in the Darkness return with its muted colours given the texture they had lacked back then, the barbed edges of a sudden, tortuous reality. His second agency had dropped him, that phone call ending with him sorting through his cards with shaking hands and unseeing eyes, the Ojamas pulling at his sleeves with their stubby little fingers.

But he had continued from that moment, and his third agency was the one he stayed with now, his career gathering momentum with every tournament appearance, every exhibition match. The backstage corridors of the arenas here were known to him, and they were nothing like the winding pathways of Ojama Country that curved and banked in unexpected places, every pale stone covered with reddening dirt.

Fuck, he was tired.

“I caught some of your duel with Mathmatica,” Judai said, the driver switching lanes, “at the…HCE Cup? I think?”

“The HRE Cup,” Manjoume corrected. He had finished third.

“Yeah, that’s it. Didn’t except to see so many dragons in your deck.”

“I was trying something out,” he said, and Ojama Yellow, being Ojama Yellow, piped up with, “Y-You weren’t trying to replace us, were you? That thought…is just…too sad!”

As Yellow cried into his lapels, Manjoume let out a deep sigh. “You moron. You were _still_ in my deck.”

Yellow immediately stopped crying, like a facet being turned off. “Oh! Right! But that Light and Darkness Dragon is sooooo bossy. You should put him back in the safe!”

“I should put you in the safe.”

 “W-What?!”

“Hey, how far is it to the airport?” Judai asked, and Manjoume, waving Yellow away from a well-practiced flick of his hand, knew _exactly_ what he would say next. “Maybe we could have a duel of our own? Like you said earlier, I have some catching up to do as your rival.”

“Really, I…” He had stopped for some reason, maybe because that static had rushed in again, almost tangible. He breathed in. “Now’s not the time for that. While I shouldn’t _need_ to be at my best to beat a slacker like you, I also make a point of not dueling when I’m tired. It’s bad for my image.”

Judai shrugged again.

And when Manjoume continued, their eyes locked.

“We’ve been over why I won’t answer your question, Judai, but _you_ could try answering one of mine.”

It happened again, orange-green fragments splitting the warm brown of Judai’s irises and then splitting apart, vanishing just as quickly as they had appeared. “Sure, why not?” Judai replied, as if the trace of Yubel had been nothing at all, just a trick of the light.

“Why are you interested in the research center?”

“Well, anything involving duel spirits gets my attention. You’ve probably guessed that much already.” Judai paused, a curl of green showing. It stayed. “To be honest, there are a lot of interesting things at the research center, but there’s nothing quite as interesting as you.” The smile Judai gave him next was too sharp, and something about it made his throat tight, his heart race in a familiar way that he wanted to ignore, to push away and keep down.

His weakness was an obvious one, the years between them parting like grains of sand on a tilted palm, dropping like the insignificant things that they were.

“Just stay out of trouble,” Manjoume said as he crossed his arms and looked away, down at the scuffs on his well-worn boots. All black. The heels were falling apart. “And, Judai, if you need help with whatever you’re doing, try asking me. I’m still the strongest ally you have, and if you’ve _somehow_ forgotten that, then I really will never forgive you.”

He meant it, and, some time later, folding himself into his first-class seat and clicking his phone off, he realized that Judai hadn’t answered him then, his sharp smile losing its edge for a moment that dragged and dragged.

\---

His schedule was, as expected, hectic and demanding, interviews lined up back-to-back after each duel and bracketed by dinners with current sponsors, potential sponsors, and the business owners of television networks, radio syndicates, and global tech companies, more than one vying for the position of Kaiba Corp’s new rival. Hosted by Schroeder Corp, the BCGRP used its experimental new holographic projectors for each duel, and the scales, features, and armored plates that had risen from his side of the field had been starker than before, closer to those of the spirits beneath them.

A fourth-place finish had been easy to accept, given that the projections had put him at eighth-place and he liked proving those over-zealous duel analysts wrong, the low-attack Ojamas still an easy target for them. And, more than that, he liked the sound of his name in a thousand-fold chant that reverberated across the stadium – hands raising when his own did, cheers sounding when he commanded them to.

“I’m saving first place for next time,” Manjoume said to his manager, Misako, as they navigated yet-another series of grey hallways, her heels clicking against the concrete. “There wouldn’t be any suspense if I won everything.”

“You always say that,” she mumbled without looking up from her phone. “By the way, your photoshoot tomorrow has been moved up. We should get started at four.”

His phone showed 23:12 CET.

No messages, and eight days had passed since then.

Next would be the hotel, and he waited for it as their van passed under orange street lights, over a thin bridge with the water below spanned by orange-white reflections and bordered by scattered crowds, silhouettes in the near-dark. By the doors, he signed the papers and cards given to him outside – the marker dragging against his fingertips, staining his palm – with Ojama Yellow burrowed into the high collar of his coat, his snores soft, even. It had started to rain.

It didn’t matter what his hotel room looked like, the lights going off after his shower and staying that way. The bright block of white-blue on the pillow was from his phone. No messages.

No missed calls.

“Like I even care,” he said to the empty room.

But when his phone vibrated, he almost knocked it off the bed.

The combined effect of Marufuji Sho’s round glasses, argyle-patterned sweater, blue suspenders, and low ponytail was that of a benevolent painter or kind-hearted art teacher, but, in reality, Sho was one of Manjoume’s greatest rivals and had a ruthless streak to match that of the Kaiser himself. The Power Bond card had left Manjoume with more loses than he cared to admit, especially not to the person who had just opened a video call with him.

Marufuji Sho, the New Kaiser, was ranked 23rd worldwide.

“First,” Sho began, his glasses flashing, “I want you to congratulate me.”

Manjoume, who suddenly felt the impact of multiple four-hour nights and the current 23:56 of the clock, ran a hand over his forehead, took a deep breath, and muttered, “And _why_ would I do that?”

“Because a certain someone has just filed the stage 6 paperwork for a certain Cyber Art Duel League and a certain someone expects this paperwork to go through. Ha! Take that!” Sho declared and burst into a victory celebration that involved a lot of rapid hand movements and some whooping noises, the camera diving into the argyle sweater. Like that, the scowl had lifted off Manjoume’s face, and he found himself laughing along with Sho, the camera suddenly jerking up again. “Come on, Manjoume-kun! You want to congratulate me, riiiight?”

“Sounds like you’re running away from our next duel.”

“No way! I’m sticking around for a few more seasons,” Sho replied, and he nodded hard enough to almost throw his glasses off, a move typical for Marufuji Sho and not his feared alter-ego. “I’m getting you back for using that Ojama Delta Hurricane card on me!”

“Sho, you _won_ that duel.”

“So? My Cyber End Dragon, taken away by those-!”

“Did you have a second point?”

“…What?”

Manjoume sighed again. “You started the conversation with ‘first’, which could mean that you had a second point to make. Although it may be _difficult_ for you to believe, I don’t exactly feel like arguing about my Ojamas until my morning schedule starts.”

“Morning schedule…? Oh, sorry! I thought you were still in America.”

“Don’t apologize,” Manjoume said. “It’s not like the dark room, the pillow behind me, or anything like _that_ should have tipped you off.”

Sho pouted. “That much sarcasm can’t be healthy, Manjoume-kun.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“Maaaaaybe….”

Behind Sho was a blue sky, a city street, and a set of wooden tables and chairs, a waitress passing between them. The faint orange squiggle could be Cycroid, it drifting behind a black triangle that merged with the glass and then shifted through it. And even if Manjoume _hadn’t_ known Sho since he was a Slifer Red with the low confidence and prospects to match, he would have still hesitated, a silence setting in and spreading. A siren sounded outside. Through the parted curtains, he could see the dark rain bead on the windows.

“Last week, Judai…showed up,” Manjoume said, and he knew the obvious questions Sho would ask next and what ones he wanted to avoid. “I can’t describe it any other way, so don’t ask. He has my number, and apparently we’re meeting up when I get back to Fortunis. Or…something like that.” Something vague, uncertain.

“So, how was he?”

An unexpected question, and Sho’s expression had turned serious.

“Judai? He was like Judai. How _else_ can I explain that?” Manjoume shook his head, damp bangs dragging through his spread fingers. “I even bought the slacker lunch, _twice_.”

“…Right.”

“He didn’t seem hurt, if that’s what you’re worried about. Although, I’m probably the one who knows the least about what he even does. It’s unacceptable, coming from someone I dared to call my ‘rival’.”

“Manjoume-kun?” He stopped. He waited, and Sho’s voice was unsteady when he continued. “Did he…s-space out? I mean, more than he normally does.”

If anything, the opposite had happened – Judai’s dual-coloured eyes digging into him, almost through him, as if they had been opponents.

“No, not at all.”

Sho’s shoulders sank in relief, the blurred vehicroids behind him shifting. “Okay, good. Great. G-Great!” Manjoume waited again, rain drops beading and falling. “Aniki… The last time he came over, he seemed…different, distracted. I didn’t know what to say to him.” Sho chuckled, a nervous sound. “I…think he’s changed phones since then. My messages don’t go through.”

“I’ll talk to him about that.”

Sho chuckled again. “Ah, Manjoume-kun, so you _do_ have a heart. Just you wait! I’ll tell your fans and wreck that cool-guy image of yours!”

Of course Sho wouldn’t, but Manjoume went along with it anyways, a scowl turning his face. “Oh? Is that a threat? It’s not wise to provoke someone like me, New Kaiser.”

After the call had ended, his phone lying on his chest, the rain continued to tap against the window like fingers, like someone trying to keep him awake even as orange streaked the blue-grey sky. And he thought then of the static that had circled around Judai, a buzz of hurried, overlapping whispers that he could not understand. They stayed with him still.

\---


	2. Dodge, Parry

\---

When his direct flight to Fortunis landed, Manjoume sent a message to that unused number in his ‘Contacts’ list and then preoccupied himself by sorting through his deck, scrolling through articles on his next tournament, and poking at the Ojama brothers, at least one always folded in his signature trench coat. In the back of a company car, he passed out and had a nightmare – there was no other word for it – of Armed Dragon LV10 being targeted by Neo-Spacian Grand Mole and returned to his hand, Judai, the _bastard_ , announcing the attack with his signature ‘Gotcha!’ hand gesture.

If Manjoume excluded anything involving his brothers, tournament placements, and alternate dimensions ruled by demonic overlords, then it was _easily_ the worst nightmare he had ever had.

Eventually, the driver turned off the highway and into a solid block of high-end apartment buildings, his own marked with a unique, tapered design, like one long shard of glass had been embedded in its façade. It had been a matter of practicality, situated at the midpoint between the research center and the Pro League grounds, both in the same city. The furniture inside was still what had been there when he had moved in, the matte black suiting him but also too plain, too predictable.

Still, it was _much_ better place to pass out in then a moving car, and, throwing his messenger bag on the coffee table, Manjoume immediately fell on the couch, shut his eyes, and missed the next two hours of that day.

He might have missed the next three hours, but while he did _technically_ live alone, a bunch of freeloaders had made their way into his apartment, most of their cards in his safe or that one drawer in his kitchen, mixed in with take-out menus and old business cards. The yowl of Catnipped Kitty cut through another nightmare – this one of Yubel morphing into Terror Incarnate, twin dragon heads splitting up from their shoulders and parting over a giant, fixed eye that stared into him, _through_ him – and within seconds the Ojamas were jumping on his chest, babbling that Rescue Rabbit’s team had cheated in their last game, squealing and chattering away while angry squawks and growls joined in from across the room.

He needed a new gimmick.

Those low-attack monsters were far, _far_ too demanding, and-

His notification light was on.

Throwing the Ojamas off, Manjoume shot up to his full height and swiped to his messages, Judai’s short and direct.

 

**Yuki Judai [18:14]: we should meet up**

There was only one answer to that, and it ended with Yuki Judai sprawled across his all-black couch and devouring a large shrimp, pineapple, and artichoke pizza while Manjoume stared at him, morbidly fascinated by the amount of hot sauce Judai squirted onto his next slice.

The low-attack spirits had recognized Judai and, in a matter of seconds, had taken him into their group, Rescue Rabbit settled in his lap while Winged Kuriboh spun in circles by the ceiling, two bird spirits trailing behind it with happy chirps and clicks. The only expectations were the Ojama brothers, cautious of someone who could see and therefore tease them. They had set up camp by Manjoume’s arm chair, the upturned pizza box their makeshift fort.

Judai had left his jacket by the door, and he wore the same jeans as last time and the same boots with the split laces, the ends taped together. The t-shirt was different, tighter, and Manjoume was not at _all_ jealous of Judai’s wide shoulders, defined arms, or any combination of them, not that he had any _reason_ to be jealous in the first place. _He_ was the one with an actual fan club, unlike Judai who was cheered on by some combination of Sho, Johan, and whatever duel spirits had attached themselves to him. No comparison. Not even _close_.

Manjoume raked a hand through his unkept hair, some stiff patches of gel breaking apart, and tried to clear his head, aware of the static that pushed in again, that scattered his thoughts.

“So,” Judai began, leaning back and throwing one arm over the couch, “you want to hear my report?”

“About what?”

“Oh, just that research center you’ve been hanging out at for…what? A year now?”

Manjoume raised an eyebrow, the Ojamas at his feet already throwing insults at a smiling Yuki Judai, each one ineffective. “I won’t confirm or deny anything, Judai. You should be aware of that, and I’d hate to repeat myself for the sake of someone like you.”

“Of course, but… Well, that doesn’t mean I can’t tell you what _I_ know, does it?” He did not interrupt, and Judai, smiling even wider, continued. “The ground floor is a public art gallery and café, next is ten floors of offices, and after that is where it gets interesting. A bunch of labs… Serious-looking people in white coats… Some high-level suits from Industrial Illusions. Do you know there’s a helipad on the roof?”

“Just get to the point,” Manjoume muttered, his chin propped up on his knuckles, and Judai’s next words were even faster, his excitement showing through.

“All of these people are studying duel spirits, but the subjects aren’t the duel spirits themselves. As I see it, they’re focused on the duelists who can interact with them, including a certain pro who I’m a fan of. You can understand my concern, right?”

“Judai…”

“How can you trust these people?” was what Judai asked next, his voice still light, almost cheerful, but with something stronger behind it. The constant chatter of the spirits had faded. The static had risen, poured in. Judai’s eyes were his own, and, like that, they were the hardest to look away from.

Setting his teeth, Manjoume gave him the answer.

“Pegasus is funding this project for entirely selfish reasons. The very foundation of his company would crumble if anything happened to the spirit world, the duel spirits, or the duelists like us who can see them. You want to know ‘how’ I can trust them? There’s the simple version of it. At his core, Pegasus is a businessman, and, believe me, I know what values those people have.” His right hand dragged through his hair again, a sudden memory like a shard. He ignored it. “Look, I’m perfectly aware that anything involving duel spirits usually attracts two kinds of people – self-interested megalomaniacs after power and _you_ , Judai. But that’s not the case here. This is _different_.”

Judai held his stare, and his smile flickered.

“Alright, now I get why all of this is ‘top secret’. You’re trying to keep those power-hungry types away. Not a bad idea.”

“It’s been working so far, if you exclude Pegasus himself,” Manjoume muttered, and Judai laughed, all white teeth and bright eyes. Next to him, Winged Kuriboh let out a soft coo.

“So, when you have your session tomorrow, can I tag along?”

It was Manjoume’s turn to laugh, a darker, lower sound. Of course Judai had known more than _that_.

“You really don’t pay attention if you think it’s that simple.”

“Hmm…”

Judai frowned in concentration, the level of focus putting lines between his eyebrows, and Manjoume, still running on a different time zone, went into his kitchen to make some coffee, the machine rattling on. He doubled his usual amount of sugar, which was already the double of the recommended amount of sugar.

If Judai wanted any, he could get it himself.

In the early hours of the morning, the apartment showed how little he lived in it, its bare white walls extending from the kitchen to the living room and ending at a massive window overlooking the city maze below, a dark grey striped with moving cars and advertisements, neon signs. Now, his rescued spirits swirled around Judai as coils of fur and scales, Judai’s bare arms over the back of his couch. A moon-shaped scar curved over his raised knuckles.

Manjoume chose the next subject, and when Judai gave over his phone with a shrug, Manjoume started entering numbers into it, Sho’s the first, Asuka’s next. He was sure to add Johan’s number, throwing in his social media handle as a bonus. The endless stream of still blue lakes, snow-covered mountains with slanted peaks, and open, sprawling fields of wildflowers was almost enough to make Manjoume jealous, the life of a Pro Duelist being mostly airport terminals, stages, and hallways.

“You should pay me for this.”

“Well, I _could_ pay you with a duel…”

Manjoume rolled his eyes. Idiot. “Most people in your position would beg me for a duel.”

“…Because I’m not a pro?”

“Exactly.” He handed it back with a smirk. “So, how much pride do you have left, Judai?”

“Why are you like this?” Judai mumbled with a deep sigh, but his smile flashed as he clicked the screen off. The ever-present static grew then, and although Manjoume had more questions to ask, he knew that he had to be prepared when dealing with a strong opponent, one who could counter him with perfect ease.

The city outside had darkened, the lights of its towers on in asymmetrical blocks, more and more going out as time passed. When Judai began some story about an underground duel league, the spirits around him tilted their heads in curiosity and crowded in, butterfly wings spread over reptilian scales. Petit Dragon opened its little jaws and squeaked when Judai described the electro-shock duel that the syndicate’s leader had dragged him into, the collar equipped with a massive remote lock, and Spirit of the Breeze, a delicate fairy, covered her ears as Judai mimed putting it on, his smile bright, reassuring. The Ojamas, forgetful as always, had settled on the arm of the couch and clutched each other as the story continued, the duel starting with a burst of electricity and Judai losing life points.

Of course Judai was the hero in the end. The counterfeit cards were returned to their owners. The authorities collected the villains.

But it had to be a recent story, considering the curved burn marks on Judai’s neck and the faint, red impression of something rigid in the hollow of his throat, something like the barrel of a hinge.

Judai, the person who had left his ‘Contacts’ list empty.

Manjoume’s own stories from the Pro League came next, the Ojamas cutting to slam an opponent of his or boast of their own importance, the other low-attack spirits cooing in response. And, like that, it was almost too easy to fall into those old routines, those old patterns formed back when they shared a dorm, fought over fried shrimp with worn chopsticks and enough insults to draw a crowd. Back when the rush of waves against the shore would wake him up more than the sunlight did, than the screech of his alarm did now, and Judai, a familiar shadow on the shoreline, would always track sand inside and carry that sharp smell of salt into their lecture halls.

The ocean had spread out to the horizon, the sky above it merged with the distinct waves and of the same deep, clear blue.

\---

When Manjoume woke up, it took him longer than usual to remember where he was. The bedside table that he raked his hand across, searching for his phone, was familiar, as was the thick headboard. But the chatter of the spirits in the next room was more than just familiar, and Manjoume rolled out of his own bed, stripped off his two-day-old clothes, and had a shower cold enough to jolt him awake, the hour early enough to be like a tangible weight on his shoulders, like the first pulse of a headache.

Step one was caffeine, and, throwing on the nearest set of clothes, he strode into the kitchen, jabbed at the coffee machine, and then looked over his shoulder at the person on his couch.

Still asleep.

Somehow _that_ had happened, an impromptu sleepover with Yuki Judai, and Manjoume refused think about it too much.

He was also ignoring the faint shadow pressed over Judai – its serrated scales and wings flickering like dark water, a third-eye widening as it tracked his movements. A split pupil against red and yellow.

Judai woke up before he had to leave, his bedhead _almost_ impressive, and he followed Manjoume out the door with a knowing smile. The company car waiting outside was marked with the simple logo for Industrial Illusions.

Although Manjoume despised repeating himself, it was necessary then.

“I doubt that they’re going to let you into the laboratory.”

“Hmm. Maybe if you put in a good word for me, they'll change their minds!”

Manjoume snorted, and Judai joined him like that, Winged Kuriboh hooting as it bounced on the back seats.

The research center was on the outskirts of Fortunis, and the grounds surrounding it were immaculate, the green grass evenly cut and giving way to ornamental pounds, level hedges, and clusters of tall roses that wound around delicate sculptures and bordered massive tiered foundations of white stone. The building itself was a study in contrasts, the base a sprawling castle complete with rounded turrets and aged ivy that snaked through the stones, the green-brown leaves parting with the wind. From it, white brackets rose, their panes of glass catching the morning light, and formed a thin vertical cage of metal and glass. The staff by the front doors nodded their heads at him, their suits immaculate. The Industrial Illusions logo covered everything. They passed a framed portrait of Pegasus, the one of many.

As usual, Dr. Krenshaw waited for him in the lobby, her standard-issue clipboard under one arm and the massive Funny Bunny pin clipped to one lapel.

When they were first introduced to each other, she had immediately asked for a sample of his blood, which had _not_ put him in his best mood. But from there, session after session adding up, his opinion of her had changed. The outcomes and the ethics of the research project were deep concerns of hers and frequent topics of their conversations. With her ever-present white coat, white hair, and pale skin, Dr. Krenshaw would fade into the background of the laboratory, and she was sometimes felt as a strong hand in his arm when he woke up.

Now, her fixed expression was set on Judai, and her greeting came later than it normally would.

“We have a file on you, Yuki Judai,” she began, and Judai started to laugh. Although, he _did_ have the decency to glance away, the Kuriboh hovering over him cooing in response.

“I...can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad thing.”

“It's a matter of perspective,” she replied, cryptic. “Although, the head of our company seems to be fond of you.”

“What? Pegasus?” Judai blurted out, and Manjoume stared at him. “Okay, so...does that mean I can take a proper look around here? Do you guys have a guided tour or something like that? I’m sure that Thunder here will vouch for me!”

“You insufferable….” Manjoume muttered, his face twitching.

But Dr. Krenshaw considered it, her eyes flashing behind her wire-frame glasses, and, in disbelief, he watched as she slowly nodded. Judai, being Judai, grinned and gave Manjoume a thumbs-up.

They must have had a very thorough file on him, maybe one that mentioned the Gentle Darkness he carried.

As they followed her to the elevator, Judai gawked at the tapestries, and he flinched when Manjoume rammed an elbow into his side.

“Gah!”

“What are you really doing?”

Judai gestured at a reproduction of _La Dame à la licorne_. “Uh… Art...stuff?”

Manjoume let out a deep sigh. “You idiot… What are you really doing _here_? Just tell me already.”

With a glance back, Dr. Krenshaw stopped, took out her phone, and ignored them from a convenient distance, the people around them walking fast, their heads down. More researchers in white coats. Businessmen with bright ties.

Judai looked at only him.

“It’s like you said. Anything involving duel spirits gets my attention. Maybe I'm too predictable, in that sense.”

“But there's more to it, Judai,” Manjoume muttered, and _then_ Judai looked away, his eyes dark.

“Sure, but you’re not going to like my answer,” he added, and some of his humor showed through, but not enough. Not even close. “I’m looking for something, a solution to a problem. I'll know it when I see it. Well, I _should_.” He shook his head, and Manjoume wanted to shake _him_ , his back teeth grinding together. “I can't say more than that. I'm...not the only one involved, and I won't speak over the others.”

Something was wrong.

Seriously wrong.

“But what you've said about this place seems to be true,” Judai added, shrugging. “Nothing shady is going on. Those two weeks turned out to be pretty useful, although I've never been good with waiting, have I?”

“Judai…”

“Let me tag along,” was what Judai said next, and Manjoume was already cornered, without an answer except the obvious one. The years between them meant nothing. They had already crumbled like the fragile things that they were, and the shadow behind Judai rose through the delicate fabric, Yubel’s green-orange eyes boring through its taut red threads.

\---

Fourteen floors later, and he found himself in Dr. Krenshaw’s cluttered office – the walls covered with framed photographs, accolades, and diplomas plus scraps of old schedules, his identification number on several – while Judai took up the other visitor’s chair, his fingers laced behind his head. When she returned, it was with a new stack of papers on her clipboard, and she held them out to Judai with an arched eyebrow.

“Sign this, and nothing leaves this building. Understand?”

“You should try reading it first,” Manjoume muttered, Judai already scrawling his signature across the front.

“If you’ve already signed one like this, then what’s the big deal?” Judai replied with an impish grin, and Manjoume ignored him, the Ojamas ready with enough comebacks to make his own unnecessary. Sometimes the little spirits could be useful, although, puffed up with anger, the divebomb of Winged Kuriboh was enough to send them running around the room, Ojama Yellow finding cover under a table lamp.

“Stop me if I say anything unnecessary,” Dr. Krenshaw said, steepling her hands on her desk. “The purpose of our research is relatively simple – to strengthen the connections between duelists and their duel spirits, ideally for the benefit of our respective worlds. When interdimensional events like the spread of Darkness occur,” she stated, and Manjoume caught Judai’s slight flinch, “the delicate barrier between these worlds cracks, and if the cracks widen, the results could be catastrophic. For instance, our worlds operate under different natural laws, different mathematical axioms, and while they may have some things in common, there is no strong correlation between them. Therefore, our worlds must connect in a very strict, regulated way, otherwise both could be irrevocably altered.”

Judai nodded, and she continued in the same level voice.

“Two immediate problems arise from this situation. The first is the need to avoid placing more stress on this dimensional barrier than necessary, as its current state is far from ideal. The second conflicts with the first, as we also need a way of monitoring the spirit world for unexpected changes.”

“For example, our duel spirits knew about the spread of Darkness before any of _us_ did,” Manjoume added, his arms crossed. “The Ojamas even saw it on the contaminated cards, although these _morons_ kept their mouths shut.”

“H-Hey! That’s not fair!”

“Yeah! We were protecting you!”

“Nice job,” Manjoume snapped as he shoved Green and Black away. “The _point_ is that had someone been able to go and check on the world itself, then there would have been more time to prepare for what happened next. I didn’t exactly _like_ losing a duel that I didn’t need to.”

“We at Industrial Illusions hypothesize that the solution to these problems lies in the relationships between duelists and their cards,” Dr. Krenshaw said, taking over for him with a coded look. “In particular, our ideal candidates are duelists who can to communicate with duel spirits. If these spirits can use their cards to pass into our world, then perhaps duelists can use these same cards to pass into their world. Of course, to be viable, this would have to leave behind no dimensional cracks. This eliminates the more obvious methods of dimensional travel, such as by opening a portal or harnessing duel energy.”

From what Manjoume understood, the technical jargon enough to make his head spin with or without caffeine, Johan’s Rainbow Dragon was the least terrible of those options, its rainbow bridge melding the borders of dimensions together rather than forcing them closer.

“Guess we’ve been careless in the past,” Judai commented, and Manjoume snorted at the massive understatement.

“So far, the best results have been achieved with field spells, and it should go without saying that Manjoume is our best candidate by far.”

“Doesn’t get much better than Manjoume Thunder,” Judai added, and because he _clearly_ wanted a reaction, Manjoume did not give him one.

\---

“This,” Manjoume declared, passing into the laboratory as Dr. Krenshaw’s assistants took up their stations, “is such a bad idea.”

And Judai, being Judai, just spun one of the testing chairs. “Hey, you heard it from the doctor herself. I’m ‘experienced’ in this subject.”

“Just try correcting me, slacker. I dare you.”

“I…think I’ll pass,” he said with a sheepish grin, and Manjoume – still reeling from the fact that Yuki Judai had just been declared ‘experienced’ in _anything_ but failing written exams, sleeping for twelve hours, and playing card games – decided to just ignore him.

It was a failproof tactic, when it actually worked.

A white-walled room, the laboratory was one corner of the fourteenth floor, and a four by four grid of computer monitors took up its far wall, most banded with the red text ‘NO DATA INPUT’ and showing empty values, just strings of zeroes. The testing chairs, four in total, were arranged around a bare table in the center of the room, and each had attachments for the bulky terminals and machines being moved by the assistants, their placements familiar to him by now.

Where Ojama Country was in the dimensional map was unknown, as if the little village was tucked away in some gap between the planes and continents within it, and all efforts to locate it had ended in absolute confusion, the Ojamas terrible with directions, or himself being over-exhausted, gasping at the borders of those rolling hills. The danger was an unlikely one – him, the one crossing the dimensional gap, becoming stranded in that distant village – but he had considered it all the same. Pre-industrial life with a bunch of Ojamas had to be a circle of Hell or, at the very least, a very persuasive nightmare.

Winged Kuriboh had stayed in the hallway, buzzing up and down the windows like an overgrown bee, and judging by the meter of distance that Judai had kept between himself and anyone wearing disposable gloves, that agitation had to be mutual.

“Is all of this…necessary?”

Dr. Krenshaw answered before Manjoume could. “If little is known about the spirit world, then even less is known about the effects that it has on those who travel there. You may have heard about these incidents before, but several spiritually sensitive children have fallen into comas because of their acute abilities, some remaining like that for years.” She paused, fingers drumming on her clipboard for a moment. “My colleagues and I have identified some possible precursors to these incidents, such as the time spent in the other world or unfamiliarity with the duel monsters involved. In addition, there are also physiological characteristics that we can monitor, like heart rate and brain activity.”

“I see…”

“The greatest risk factor, however, is physical manifestation in the other world. If a duelist stays in spirit form, like duel spirits do in our world, then transitioning through the barrier is rather seamless. Crucially, it also leaves no cracks behind.”

“Only an idiot would want to manifest in Ojama Country anyways,” Manjoume muttered, drawing it from the top of his deck. “Probably smells terrible.”

Ojama Yellow was dragging on his coat tails. “Thunder, hurry up! We’ve got a biiiiig surprise!!”

“Shhhh! You’ll give it away!”

“Do you think everyone’s got it ready…?”

Knowing the Ojamas, it would be yet-another dance competition, singing competition, or, worst of all, comedy competition, himself being dragged in as the ‘Head Judge’ – essentially a nuanced form of torture that he would never, _never_ get used to. As Judai watched the Ojamas squirm and babble, his expression slowly softened, and Manjoume took that as his cue to get ready, even _if_ the thing ahead of him was probably sixty annoying, _aggravating_ minutes of Ojama hospitality.

The universe hated him, clearly.

He sat down and pulled off his boots, and Judai, taking up the chair next to his, asked a very stupid question. “Uhh… What’re you doing?”

“The electrodes have to go somewhere.”

“…Electrodes?”

He threw his jacket on the table next. Judai twitched. “Remind me why I’m even talking to you.”

“Because you- Uh. T-Thunder?”

“What?”

“How...far are you taking this?” Judai asked as Manjoume started on the buttons of his grey dress shirt, opening the one at his collar first and then working his way down.

“Why do you care?” he snapped back, pointedly looking at not-Judai things like the cards on the table, only one face-up. Stupid Judai.

“B-But won't you be cold…?”

He clicked his teeth. “It's just my shirt, idiot.” One button caught, and he pulled at it, scowling. “Don't get too excited.”

Judai let out an awkward laugh, and Manjoume decided to ignore him for a while, the current topic not exactly _ideal_ for someone like him.

Yanking the last button out, he rolled his shoulders back and threw the shirt next to his jacket. From there, the motions were familiar – lean back, wait for the chair to recline, and try not to move while the thin lines were attached to his ankles, wrists, face, and chest. The static that circled Judai complicated things, like a reminder of the person sitting next to him, waiting. The conductive gel slid across the inside of his wrist.

“You're really okay with all of this?”

He glanced over, and the current angle made Judai sideways.

“I volunteered for this,” he said, and when Judai's eyes widened, a spark of green showed through. “Look, like it or not, there's only one way to protect our duel spirits, and that's by learning more about them. You've played the hero before, Judai. You should already know that.”

Judai looked away first.

The first pass would be only five minutes, a check to see if his stamina had returned to normal, and the second would be fifty-five ideally, a quarter of what he could do without 'abnormal readings’, a catch-all term that included the extreme fatigue from his last session.

His first ten sessions had been disastrous, just hours of him staring at Ojama Country while the Ojama brothers bounced on the table, picked their noses, and whined at him for being, in _their_ words, 'slow’. While Manjoume had crawled out of many dark pits in his life, risen from the run-down bars and alleyways that encircled the vaulted arenas of the Pro League, few could compare with the sinking dread and utter humiliation of being insulted by the _Ojamas_ and knowing that they were _right_.

Even the breakthrough had been hard, the sky above Ojama Country peeling away from that endless dark while his body was ripped away, the _feeling_ from it dropping like a rock in water. Sudden. Absolute, but with strange ripples that had marked the landscape below, the piercing white of laboratory pushing through it and then fading into nothingness.

The Ojama Country card was like a door, and, closing his eyes, he breathed in and tried to find it, the darkness close.

He breathed out.

He reached down, and, carefully, almost hesitant, small, rounded fingertips brushed against his own, the Ojamas on their way through the familiar dark. He couldn't hear or see them, but they were still there, and he followed them through the door.

Manjoume woke up on his back with a grey-purple sky bearing down on him.

Being in Ojama Country was like being shrunk to the size of a hamster and thrown in an abandoned lot, the arching flowers above him like overgrown daisies, and they framed the sky like trees would, the occasional mushroom pushing in as a bulging, purple mass. Stunned, his breath _gone_ , he stared and stared, and _then_ he staggered to his feet, his ripped black jacket over his shoulders again.

The clothes he wore were old favourites, complete with his custom deck holster and a scratched black watch. Estimating how long he was out, at least twenty seconds, he started the timer, and the Ojamas kept running in circles around him, their bare feet parting the yellowed blades of grass and kicking up dust. Insects with veined wings buzzed away, their cries like those of cicadas.

The rolling hills extended out to the horizon, and they sank into the walls of a small, isolated village, its tiered houses spanning those walls and dividing the thin, wayward paths that snaked around them. The blotches of white and grey rising over it were the winged Ojamas – shy and easily startled, their words given as whispers. Ojama Red and Ojama Blue were the closest, ramming shovels into the hard soil and turning over dirt.

Huffing, Ojama Yellow ran through him. “Hurry! Hurry up!!”

“No respect,” Manjoume muttered to himself, and the Ojamas led him between the green stalks and massive mushroom trunks, their laughter ringing with each step. More of the village came into view, its bottom tiers sloping into the main plaza, and when Manjoume saw what was in the middle of it, he stopped and contemplated the continued misery of his existence.

Above the gathered Ojamas, there rose what could only be described as a statue of himself, the great Manjoume Thunder, in his signature pose – one arm stretched over his head, his coat flaring out. Although, because the builders were a bunch of Ojamas, everything was lopsided. His hair was parted on the wrong side. And, the most glaring feature of all, it had been made out of mounds of clay and dirt, uprooted mushrooms and twigs poking out from his makeshift legs.

“It… _is_ the first statue someone’s made of me,” Manjoume said, unthinking, and the Ojamas ran cheering into the village.

“He likes it! He likes it!”

“A win for us Ojamas!”

“Wooooooooooooooh!!!”

Manjoume followed them past the statue, leaning dangerously far to the right, and let the little Ojamas swarm him. Their tiny arms passed through him. Their cheers became even louder when he struck his signature pose, hurried numbers shouted out and followed by more cheers. Clouds of reddening dirt were kicked up, washing over the white stone walls.

His watch went off.

\---

Returning had always been easier, and the ceiling above him looked the same it always had. The florescent lights made him squint.

“What’s my status?” Manjoume asked, propping himself up on his elbows. Cold wires trailed down his bare chest. Goosebumps has risen on his skin, and he suppressed a sudden shiver, his eyes darting to where Judai had been.

Judai was still there.

“The readings are all normal,” Dr. Krenshaw said from her terminal. “See if you can do at least fifty minutes.”

“They’ve built a statue of me,” he muttered, and, out of habit, he almost raised his hand and ran it through his hair, but the curving wires stopped him. Their reds and blues trailed down the inside of his wrist. “Bet your Elemental Heroes haven’t done _that_ , Judai.”

Judai gave him an easy smile. His grey bomber jacket was over the back of the chair. His shoulders were lower than they had been before, and even Winged Kuriboh had darted inside the room, its chatter sounding as it circled the table.

“Hmm. You’re making me jealous,” Judai said, and Manjoume snorted. Unlikely.

If they could have, the impatient Ojamas would have already yanked him back to Ojama Country. “We’re missing the party!” Green whined, and Black and Yellow jumped on his chest, their little toes passing through coiled wires. But when he closed his eyes, the world took longer than it should have to fall away, the cold greys and white clinging to his eyelids.

The darkness set in with a sudden chill, and navigating it was like stumbling through the hallways of a strange house, the door he wanted somewhere in that maze. Unseeing, he reached out. The Ojamas had to be near, but the fingertips his own brushed against did not belong to them. They were like his own but longer, the joints thicker, and with short, bitten-down nails.

Judai.

And _then_ the Ojamas were there, grasping at his other hand and yanking it back hard, hard enough that he took a step back. Judai’s palm slid over his, warm in the dark, and he almost missed it when he hit the threshold. He fell over it and into the landscape waiting below, and Judai followed.

\---


	3. Saved

\---

Like before, he came to on his back, the bangs spread over his eyes transparent, and he stumbled to his feet fast enough that everything tilted, the daisy-like trees in sharp diagonals.

Judai, lying next to him on the ground. Transparent. A spirit like _he_ was.

The Ojamas had already run off to the village, and Manjoume, stuck _processing_ the situation, made a series of violent hand gestures. They accomplished nothing, and he felt a vague sense of despair as Judai’s mouth twitched, his eyes opening next.

Judai’s hair fell over his forehead and grazed his cheekbones, longer than it was in the real world, but the back was still shaved down, and he ran one hand over it as he sat up, a bronze pendant on a thin chain pitching forward with the motion. No burn marks banded the nape of his neck, and Manjoume watched his hand slid over the bare skin there, the place where a knotted scar shaped like a hinge should be.

“Uhhh… Manjoume?”

“What?”

“How…did you do that?” Judai asked, tilting his head. Long auburn strands parted, the colours thin enough to show the grass underneath.

“How did _I_....?” Blinking fast, he turned on Judai. “Y-You’re the one who started this!”

“Me?! I was just-”

“That was your hand!”

“You grabbed me!”

“No!”

“Guess we’re trapped in the spirit world together,” Judai said, and he was still that infuriating five-to-ten centimeters taller when he stood up, a low grin turning his face. “So, this means I can get a good look at that statue. The Elemental Heroes should know what the competition is, right?”

Years ago, Manjoume had managed to duel his way out of the loser’s bracket a prestigious tournament, and at no point crossing each of those one-hundred duelists, every round a knock-out round, had he experienced even an iota, a _fraction_ of the stress that he did now, Judai unflinching under his sudden glare. When he started after the Ojamas, Judai matched his strides – his hands in the pockets of his faded red jacket, its back lined with vertical tears.

“Please tell me that even someone like you understands the problem here,” Manjoume began, and he managed not to yell. Barely. “After I find those damn Ojamas, we’re going straight back, _if_ that’s even possible for you. Things are never that simple when you’re involved, Judai.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate it, but you really worry too much,” Judai replied, and Manjoume smacked his arm. “Hey! I mean it!”

“Why do I waste my time with-?”

“Ah! That’s it!” Judai announced, the village spreading out below them, and the gathered Ojamas froze in place, gave their new visitor a searching look, and then bolted. The brothers were caught by the crowd and carried away, Yellow vanishing behind one domed house, and while Manjoume was aware of the chaos it would cause, he still grabbed Judai by the arm and dragged him into the fray.

Because Ojama diplomacy was an impossibly long and arduous process, Manjoume set the reasonable goal of convincing the village that Judai was not there to eat them. Twenty minutes later, he had lowered that goal to ‘ _probably_ not there to eat them’. More importantly, he had managed to corral the unfortunate guides for their trip back.

Judai, charged with looking as non-threatening as possible, had taken a seat on the crumbling well, the dirt around it smudged with overlapping footprints, but he ruined _everything_ with a single sentence. His grin was bright at the edges. “Yubel says that everything’s fine at the lab. Apparently a bunch of the assistants are playing poker on that middle table. I’d wondered what it was for so… Mystery solved!”

Famous for their exploits in the human world, the Ojama brothers loved to tell the other villagers stories, and the terror of Yubel in the other dimension had been a long-time favourite. As the Ojamas ran away for a second time, one winged Ojama bouncing off a lantern pole, Manjoume pinched the space between his eyebrows and took a deep breath.

Judai, oblivious, continued in the same causal way. “’Can’t seem to get back to my body though. Guess I’ll need to rely on you for that, Manjoume. Promise to take care of me?”

“You’re lucky I haven’t… Never mind,” he muttered, aware of the three little Ojamas staring up at him, their own language _very_ susceptible to outside influence. At least they hadn’t been swept up by the crowd again, the village center emptied of all other creatures. “So, let me get this straight. You can talk to Yubel.”

“Yeah.”

“Yubel can get back to your body.”

“Yep.”

“But you can’t.”

Judai shrugged. “It’s kinda confusing. We shouldn’t be apart like that, since our souls are fused and all.”

“…Right.” A headache. Even spirits could get headaches, apparently. “Whatever. We’re going back.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“But-”

“ _No_.”

But when Manjoume grabbed Judai’s arm, there was one immediate problem. He turned his head, looked down, and saw an empty patch of dirt, those three pudgy little exhibitionists gone. Maybe they had seen something shiny and run off, and, swearing, Manjoume started for the rows of white houses with Judai stumbling after him, tripping over his own feet.

Dilapidated wood fences teetered as winged Ojamas took off from them, and small faces peered out from narrow doorways, some with more eyes than others. The curving sky overheard had streaked with dark purple, the edges splitting and blurring with paler blues and greys, and shadows banded white bricks, split grey stones, and cracked wood, each piece covered with dense whorls like overlapping fingerprints, like markers of who had moved them in the past. They found Green first, then Black.

They climber higher, and the stone pathways split into dirt trails that parted clumps of mushrooms and green plants, their massive leaves shifting with the slight wind. Fairy circles spread out below the tree-like flowers, and Yellow took up the center of one, his stubby fingers tearing a whitecap into thick strips. The moss below grew in strange curves, its matted surface fading from yellow to green, some patches almost grey.

If Manjoume could have picked up Yellow by the scruff of the neck and shaken him, then _that_ would have already happened, probably accompanied by some high-pitched screaming and flailing. Instead, his transparent foot slammed through Yellow’s mushroom pyramid, earning him a flinch and a loud outburst of, “O-Oh! H-Hey, Thunder!”

“We’re going.”

“W-What?! Ahhh… But I just got started!” Yellow whined, one mushroom stalk sticking out of his mouth.

Manjoume did another count – three Ojamas and one Judai, now standing by the edge of the cliff overlooking the village, its streets lined with bright Ojamas and little dashes of red cloth. A knotted leather bracelet was around the narrowest point of his wrist, and his nails were short and bitten-down, marked with raw crescents in red.

“The harpies attacked five generations ago, right?” Judai began, the village pushing through his image, through the bare nape of his neck. “According to Ojama Black, nobody was even hurt. Ojama King showed up and scared them off.”

“Yellow’s ancestor dropped a teapot, if you want to count that as a casualty,” Manjoume added, and he stopped next to Judai, close to the edge.

“It’s safe here, isn’t it?”

The clotheslines stretched between the rooftops below caught the wind, and Judai stared at them for a long time. The cicada-sounds rose.

“Judai?”

It happened, just like Sho had said it would. Judai’s focus slid away.

Judai ignored him, his eyes glassy and distant. Pure dark. No trace of Yubel, those motes of orange-green. Like an infatuated idiot, the indomitable Manjoume Thunder stood there and waited, his throat tight from the words he left unsaid.

Something was wrong, and the chaotic static tried to fill his head, the whispers inside overlapping, insistent in a way that he could _not_ understand. They pitched high and low, rammed into each other and then scattered, clipped syllables buried under the waves of noise, submerged until they were lost. Yubel did not sound like that, their voice a deep roll that sometimes clung to Judai’s own and pitched it lower.

The static was something else, something _wrong_.

He breathed out, and the rolling hills fell away, a darkness covering them in thin, blotted strokes, like those from an ink brush dipped in too much water. In the nearing dark, he reached out, small fingertips grazing his left hand and then digging into the gaps between his fingers, eager to move on. But he kept still, waiting, and eventually his right hand found Judai, short nails trailing over his knuckles, calloused fingers tightening their grip slowly.

From there, it was almost simple, and he opened his eyes to the glare of artificial lights and measured beats of his heart monitor. His exhaustion was light, barely enough to be felt.

The look in Judai's eyes stayed with him for much longer.

Once again, he ended up at that corner table by the green hedges with Judai, Dr. Krenshaw staying long enough to confirm what had happened. The spirits gathered as they always did, makeshift knights stalking the ornate grounds while feathered beasts circled overhead, and Manjoume let his coffee go cold, his arms crossed over his chest.

“It’s an unprecedented development,” she said, scrawling on her notebook with a bright pink Funny Bunny pen, “especially because your readings had remained stable. The implications here are…” She trailed off, frowning in concentration. “If nothing else, it gives us another facet of spirit-world travel to investigate.”

“...which means I can come back,” Judai stated, but traces to that earlier look still remained, his smile forced.

“I have to discuss this with my colleagues, but I assume they would recommend that,” she replied. From there, the minutes passed, Judai's responses always a few seconds too slow, and when Dr. Krenshaw left in a hurry, her phone to her ear, grey shadows had creased over Judai's distant eyes.

\---

He had fifteen days in Fortunis, his time divided between the center and the duel arenas on the opposite side of the city. Judai fell somewhere in between, turning up in the halls outside his matches, ready with some light comment as they turned into the laboratory together. Manjoume bought more lunches than he should have. Judai fell asleep on his couch a second time, then a third time.

Something was wrong, deeply wrong, and it kept him awake as the late hours dragged and dragged.

Whoever or _whatever_ Judai was talking to had grown insistent, and Judai's attention would slide away in the middle of any story about duel spirits or card thieves. Sometimes it happened right at the beginning of a sentence, as if the ending had to be discussed first. Sometimes Manjoume tried to ignore it.

Most times, he failed, and he endured those seconds of hard static with gritted teeth, the pressure enough to hurt. It was a painful distance, and Manjoume could feel what little control he had slip away with each passing day – like grains of sand through parted fingers.

Another cold day, the last before his flight to London, and they were at the same table again. The fallen leaves caught on the raised sculptures before crinkling and hitting the ground, rolling with the wind. He had done nothing to convince Judai. He had just stayed in place and drank his coffee, his phone vibrating with text messages on an upcoming commercial.

The mottled red around Judai's neck had started to fade, leaving an off-white stencil of the shock collar. The dark circles were new, and they did not suit him at all.

“Here, let me show you something,” he said, and he pulled his grey jacket open. From experience, Manjoume knew that Judai’s favoured deck was kept in a cracked holster on his belt, the thick presence of Yubel curling around it possessively. But, in pockets sewn to the inside of the jacket, Judai had two other decks in cloth covers, and he removed the lower one carefully, his palm passing over the top of it and his fingers checking the clasp.

Manjoume’s blood ran cold, and the pounding in his head worsened, enough to hurt. Inside that deck, there were flickers of life, the outlines of duel spirits, but they were just _that_ – flickers, faint bursts, flashes. He watched Judai fan the cards out. One had been ripped down the middle and fixed with tape. Another, in a pale card sleeve, had burnt edges. Many were lined with folds, as if they had been crushed and thrown away. And several were the imitations of children, the card backs streaked with pencil crayons and markers.

The fingers digging into his forehead were in his own, the pressure almost too much. At his elbow, the Ojama brothers had gathered, their concern something he had to brush off.

Judai snapped the deck shut, the card on top turned over. It was streaked with the coiled grey of creased paper, the lines like a network of scars over the faded portrait. “This is who I rescued from that underground duel league,” he explained, and his thumb ran over the nameplate, its characters smudged. “Those duelists, they treated their cards like trash. Some would crush their cards and throw them to the ground, as if that was the graveyard.”

The spirit inside the card shifted, barely enough to be felt. “You rescue duel spirits,” Manjoume stated, and Judai continued as if he had said nothing at all.

It had to be the truth.

“How could I stand for that? How…could _any_ duelist expect their cards to just endure it?” He shook his head, his eyes unnaturally bright. “The shame. The fear. Spirits like this have lived in a cruel world. It’s almost too much for them to take. It’s…”

“Take a-”

“You understand this feeling,” Judai said, and their eyes locked, the pressure too much. Lurid lights were behind Judai’s pupils, piercing through them. “You still have those cards from the Rescue Well, and even more on top of those. They’re…in your safe, in your apartment. You love them, don’t you?”

“I…” Manjoume stopped at the sound of his own voice, _weak_. That deck full of injured spirits pulsed with a faint power, each one like the beat of a strained, fading heart. “They’re _my_ cards, Judai. You know what my answer to that is.”

Even when moved by that strange, desperate emotion, Judai’s smile was still enough to make his chest tight. “You’re right, Manjoume.” With careful movements, Judai shuffled the cards and placed them back under the cover. But another question still remained.

“What’s in the other deck?”

Judai stopped, his fingers curling in. “…What?”

“ _What_ is in your other deck? The one in that top pocket.”

Judai stared at him, and Manjoume’s phone went off at that moment. An interview had been moved up. He had to leave, and even when work kept him on his feet for twelve hours straight, it wasn’t enough to shake those thoughts of Judai away. They clung in tightly, like talons piercing skin. They tested his composure.

They ran dark.

\---

Being a pro duelist involved a lot of diplomacy. Sponsors were never happy, even when their returns and ratings were high, and, as it turned out, there _was_ an upside to having sat through hundreds of strained family dinners with his overbearing brothers, which was his ability to nod through long, condescending speeches without rolling his eyes _too_ much. Paying attention was still a problem.

Biting his tongue was also a problem.

The reputation he had built followed him like the dark fabric of his black coat. Some opponents would knock him down, but he would always rise again, the poetic comparison to a phoenix. The _less_ poetic comparison was to a cockroach, a favourite of one announcer.

“Thunder?”

Now _he_ was the one spacing out, and, clearing his throat, he met the questioning look of his manager. Aside from the fact that her personal cellphone had an Edo Phoenix decal, the display background matching it, Misako had a spotless performance record, her updates on his schedule rapid, accurate, and focused, the advancement of his career her main priority. And, _sure_ , that did lead him to places like this – yet-another mixer for professional duelists and the various corporate lackies that supported them – but shaking hands and nodding politely was part of the job. Because he was about to break out of the 24-48 bracket, introductions had gotten a lot simpler, his rank preceding him instead of his family name.

“…Thunder?” she repeated, and her spiral earrings clicked as she leaned back. The dress code had been loose enough to allow for his signature coat, but the tie and dress shirt were required. With a focus on branding, Misako had matched his colours with her distressed knee-length dress and the thunder-bolt pin at the center of her tight choker. The row of silver rings was her own signature, each curled in a different way.

“Please tell me that guy from Usagi Electronics doesn’t want to talk about his grandchildren again,” Manjoume grumbled into his palm, and some vague sense of self-preservation stopped him from downing another glass of red wine, the waiters patrolling the hall carrying trays of _that_ and champagne. The old-money types he recognized from the weddings and birthdays his parents had forced him to attend as a child, the fear of making a scene enough to keep him silent back then. It had tightened like a collar and had left him light-headed, shaking.

“I believe the CEO of that company is passed out in the fountain,” Misako said, deadpan, and she pulled out the chair across from his, the other duelists further down the table in various stages of intoxication. Impossible bets were being made. Stupid declarations were being issued. “There’s not much that be accomplished now. I can call the car, if you would like to leave.”

“Did we get that broadcast deal for the Japan Cup?”

“Yes.”

“What about the interview for…Duel Corner?”

“No.”

“One out of two. Could be worse.”

“Indeed.”

Earlier that night, the Ojamas had spun out of their cards in matching black suits, their red briefs _somehow_ over their pants. Now, the three spirts were in a pile, their snores loud. The last time he had visited Ojama Country, Judai had tagged along again, and his hands had trailed through the long grass bordering the forest pathways, the gathered light fading to a dark grey.

In the sprawling event hall, decadence and splendour had broken open and given way to waste, thousand-dollar bottles of wine opened just for the act of doing so, rancorous laughter rising from investors who, if they _really_ wanted to, could have him blacklisted for any stray remark, any challenging word. People like that played their own games.

He clicked his teeth.

During the ride to the hotel, he nodded along with Misako’s changes to his schedule, a fan meeting shoved between two back-to-back exhibition duels. Another photoshoot had been added. It had been ten days since they had stood under the greying sky of Ojama Country, and Judai had missed five of his calls and left all of his messages unread.

\---

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [23:27]: why do i feel like youre about to do something very stupid?**

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [04:18]: *stupider than normal**

\---

Day fifteen, and he had been straightening his lapels, the studio lights flickering on, when the message came in. It stopped him. The producer called for the panelists to take their places.

 

**Yuki Judai [20:03]: are you there?**

Whatever pride Manjoume had was gone.

\---

A direct flight to Fortunis took ten hours plus a two-hour delay on the tarmac, and he stormed off the plane with his passport, wallet, phone, and three babbling Ojamas trailing after him. The messages from his manager and agency were constant, and scheduling blocks were shoved aside, cancelled, or reordered. Considering that he hadn’t taken a day off in _months_ , they owed him that much.

He took the first taxi he saw, and Judai was waiting just where he said he would be.

The towering skyscrapers and blocks of high-rises rose as jagged spikes in the distance, even the thinnest trees enough to break those rows of faraway lights. The park bordered the research center and cut up the mountainside like an incisor, and Manjoume had passed it many times, his forehead usually pressed against the window as he tried to get a few minutes of sleep. The rain had started, but the dark trees caught most of it. As the sharp scent of cedar pressed in, he stopped by the rusted-over sculpture at the entrance, just a coil of metal with the commemorative plates worn away and initials craved into its supports, flakes of orange-red rust marring their edges. Split branches cast forked shadows, each pulsing with the low wind.

A cold had set in.

The person standing next to him was like a cut of shadow, like some part of Judai that had been cut down and shredded until just this one piece remained. His white knuckles rose like blunt teeth. Red half-circles ended his bitten-down nails. His expression gave nothing, showed _nothing_. The healed-over lines of the shock collar were stark against his skin, the shadows on it grey.

“I’m worn out, Manjoume. This…is something I can’t do anymore,” Judai said with a strange smile, and he leaned into the wind as if it would take him with it, that smile angling higher. “You’re going to yell at me, aren’t you?”

“Don’t forget that you’re the self-destructive idiot that I’ve _chosen_ as my rival,” Manjoume snapped, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “You act like that isn't a privilege.”

Judai just smiled.

Rain dotted his sleeves. One drop dripped over his dead eyes.

“The duel spirits that I have are too weak to support themselves. Some don’t even have official cards. Some can’t remember how to get back to their own world at all. They’re scared, and I…” He breathed in, and Manjoume, transfixed, waited. The cold sunk deeper. “They…can’t survive alone in this world. If I try to let them go, they start to fade, and there’s also…” He spaced out. More drops of rain, another parting and dripping down his face. “I’m the only one. I’m the hero again, but, Manjoume, I _can’t_ do this.”

Someone had left an umbrella behind, and Manjoume stepped away just enough to dislodge it from its place between two chipped stones. He held it up, and Judai blinked at him. His own shoulders caught the rain still, but he hardly felt it, Judai staring up through the clear plastic.

He asked that question again.

“What’s in your other deck?”

Judai flinched. “I…”

“Most of the spirits you’ve taken in are like mine, only weaker.” He snorted, his confidence an act. He needed it now. “Didn’t know that was possible. And, sure, those guys can be a pain, but they’re not enough to get this reaction from you.” Judai stepped away and then, his head tilting, stepped closer again.

The static soared.

Manjoume continued in the same level voice. “But, then again, maybe you don’t need to show me that deck. I can make a guess at why you have it, and I…” _Fuck_. How to say it? Simple. Straightforward. He breathed in and tried again, his teeth clicking hard. “I know that you’ve taken those spirits into your head. They’re doing this to you.”

Judai flinched. “How do you-?”

“You act like _I’m_ the one who doesn’t pay attention. In our last year, you took Fujiwara’s card spirit Honest into your soul or…energy. Whatever.” He continued, his hand clenching around the handle. The feeling had left it. “Sure, Honest was injured, but that didn’t seem to matter. You sustained him somehow, and now you’ve done something like that again, only the side-effects are worse. A lot worse.”

“Honest still had his memories of Fujiwara. They…defined him.”

“You’re saying that these spirits have no memories?”

“No, not that.”

Given that he had just stepped off a plane, Manjoume had no sense of the time. The sky said night, but the weird, bubbling energy under his skin said morning, the kind accompanied by strong coffee and enough sugar to knock out an Ojama. Maybe that Italian place across from his apartment would be open, and he could take up a table there until Judai ate something and looked _somewhat_ like a human being again, his eyes sliding out of focus and flaring with that strange, lurid light.

Fuck it.

Because it was apparently two a.m., the restaurant was closed, but the all-night café down the block was not. If he had bothered with university, then maybe stepping inside would have felt nostalgic – tabletops strewn with open textbooks, mechanical pencils, and stacks of empty coffee cups. Whispers did follow him as he led Judai to a corner table, dropped him there, and then picked random things off the menu, but no one approached him, as if his scowl was a warning sign.

“This is a dangerous precedent,” Manjoume grumbled as he returned to the table and plucked some orange-flavoured thing and an overpriced sandwich in front of Judai. “I should start a tab for you.”

Judai still looked like someone out in the rain, alone.

“I’ve…taken some duel spirits in. They’re in here,” he said, tapping his forehead. “Their struggles in this world, they were almost too much. Isolation. Desperation.” That defensive smirk again. It made Manjoume’s blood run cold. “The fear is the hardest to take. It’s always there.”

“Why can’t you put them back in their cards?”

“Why can’t I…?” With a sudden laugh, Judai slapped a hand over his face. “Ah, you really don’t get it…”

“Judai...”

Rambling, Judai continued. His words were given through parted fingers, knuckles sliding across his bared teeth. “The injuries they have are deep, and nothing I do, nothing I can _try_ will make those wounds heal. I thought… I _actually_ thought I could still save them, like my power could somehow make them better. Maybe if I was stronger, I could do it. But it doesn’t work like that.” He dropped the hand. “I now understand what’s happening. They’re breaking apart with each passing day. They’re fading, and by keeping them in my head, I’m just delaying it from happening but… But it’s still going to happen.”

“Take a-”

“They’re not strong enough to make new connections. They can’t survive here in this world, and she’s… _She’s_ fading so much faster than the others. I can always feel it, like…” His face twitched. “She’s like a piece of driftwood on the water, and I’m the one on the shore watching her go out with the tide.”

With nothing else for his hands to do, Manjoume stabbed at his caramel-syrup frappe-something with a straw.

And then Judai unloaded a thin deck of cards on the table, their borders mis-matched. Some were in clear plastic sleeves, others bare with dented corners and small tears. And although this deck of Judai’s had the one thing that Manjoume had expected to find in it, the realization still got to him, turning the insides of his chest and striking his composure down, striking down that feeble, _stupid_ hope that Judai was still okay.

Even though the cards had portraits, name plates, and effect text, they were empty. Their spirits were somewhere else, leaving only bits of paper like empty husks.

Manjoume counted fifteen, and then he stopped.

\---


	4. Turn, End

\---

“Here she is,” Judai said, and the card he flipped over had been scrawled on a piece of lined paper, its borders uneven. “She didn’t have her own card, so I had to improvise. Pretty good, don’t you think?”

“How _you_ ever won a card design contest is still a mystery.”

“Aw, don’t say that.” But Judai did laugh, the hard angles falling away from his face.

But, with a second look, the portrait wasn’t even _that_ bad. Most of Judai’s time had gone into the eyes, each vertical pupil tapered at its edges, and they peered through a gash in the massive bell-shaped shell, some cross-hatching added with a pencil. Two cat-like paws and a striped tail suggested what the creature underneath looked like, but most of the portrait was that shell, that hard mask. The nameplate was simple, _“BELL”_ written in Judai’s slanted characters. The description he stared at, Judai’s fingers tapping the table: _“A quick cat spirit that knows all the hidden places.”_

“Personally, I’d be insulted if someone made me a 0/800 normal monster.”

“Hmm. I get that. You’d rather be a 0/1000 normal monster, right?”

He snorted. At least Judai was back to teasing him again.

“So… How exactly did you end up playing babysitter to this duel spirit?”

Judai shrugged. “There’s not much of a story. I found her at a campsite, all alone. If she had a card to begin with, I don’t know. There’s nothing in the official databases, so it’s possible a kid or someone accidentally pulled her into this world. I mean, even a made-up card is enough to do that.” In an encouraging sign, Judai threw back his drink and started on the sandwich. “I had no choice but to take her in, and she’s been there for…two years? Wait.” His focus slid away, and then he blinked fast. “Huh. It’s really been two years.”

“…Okay.”

Waving his hands, Judai added, “Trust me, it sounds worse than it is!”

“Like I’d believe _that_.”

“Ah, come on…”

Carefully, Judai turned the makeshift card around, and Manjoume had to be the one to ask the difficult questions again.

“This spirit, Bell… She’s fading?”

Judai nodded.

“Faster than the others?”

Another nod.

“Have you told anyone about this? Like… Johan? Fujiwara?” Judai just stared at him, which was a ‘no’. Manjoume clicked his back teeth. “Yuki Judai, why do I have the sudden urge to flip this table?”

“You have the wrong idea,” Judai said, unflinching. “What Bell’s gone through has made her fragile, so fragile that even thinking of telling another person about her was painful. Of course, the more spirits I gathered, the worse those emotions got. They…amplify each other, and then everything gets confusing.”

A large part of Manjoume was still stuck on the time Judai had given. Two years. Two years of _this_. “Let me get this straight. The spirits stopped you from telling other people about them?”

“Yeah. It’s a weird feeling,” Judai explained, his nose wrinkling. “It’s as if… someone else’s thoughts are being pushed into your head, only it’s not just one person.”

“I’ll pretend I understand that.”

Manjoume had taken that as his cue to throw back his head and down half of the ultra-syrupy mess he had paid way too much for. It had been a mistake, as Judai then leaned forward on his elbows, his eyes bright again, and said, “Hey, they really like you.”

Not spewing hot sugar and caramel sauce everywhere proved to be a formidable challenge, but Manjoume managed it somehow, his sudden coughing fit making Judai’s eyebrows rise and the Ojamas run in panicked circles. As if _that_ accomplished anything. “J-Judai, I swear you do this on purpose…”

“Do what?”

“Just shut up,” he muttered, wiping his face with his sleeve, and Judai, in a rare show of foresight, did not comment on it.

“But I’m serious. They’ve seen how you are with the Ojamas and the other low-attack spirits, and it’s…easier for them that way,” Judai said, nodding to himself. “But, to be honest, I’m really pushing them to talk about this right now, and I kinda wish I was doing anything else. We still need to have a duel, for example.”

“Like I could focus on a duel.”

“Ha. Never thought I’d hear _you_ say that…”

Manjoume could predict what would happen next, that desperation Judai tried to hide showing through. He sorted his cards with hurried, practiced movements. His eyes darted around the café, as if one of those college kids pulling an all-nighter would try something, do anything but flip through their textbooks and shove back cups of black coffee. The composure Judai had hung on a thin thread, thinner than the scraps that were left of his own, and strands were parting with each passing second, the static buzzing away like a power saw.

They had no idea what they were doing, but there were options – Fujiwara, Pegasus, Krenshaw, _Johan_.

They had no idea what they were doing, _and_ those damn spirits were going to resist with everything that they had left, tearing into Judai’s sanity with their tortured thoughts.

“How much time does Bell have left?”

Judai’s shudder hurt him, but he could take it. He had no choice.

“Y-You’re serious?”

He continued. “You wanted to involve me in this, so, congratulations, you have my attention. We have to be practical, Judai. Focus.”

“I-I don’t know the answer to _that_ ,” Judai said, hurried. Another fraying strand. Another second closer. “I…guess a few weeks? I mean, we’re okay right now. Like, I knew she was hurt, but _this_ is too much to-”

“Then your highest priority should be getting some sleep. In case you weren’t aware of it, you look terrible.”

It had become almost routine to let Judai into his apartment, but this time he went straight to his bedroom, slammed the bathroom door, turned on his shower, and stayed under it until that _pressure_ in his chest stopped, twisting the contents of the stomach and digging in like a clawed hand, every ragged breath followed by a dull, persistent ache. Manjoume wiped at his unseeing eyes, hot water trailing down his back. Eventually he turned it off.

Judai was already asleep on his couch, under the grey jacket. And, sure, there _was_ a pull-out futon in the office, but Judai still ended up in the living room, his bare feet over the arm of the couch. One of the chairs that he never used had a throw blanket on it, a stringy grey thing, and Manjoume dropped it over Judai. One foot stuck out of it. Close enough.

He stared at Judai for longer than he should have. The hollow moment turned and turned, and although he meant to leave, he stopped at his bedroom door with one hand on the frame. His fingers curled in.

“Just so we’re clear, you don’t have to hide from me, Yubel.”

Maybe some old terror cut into him as jagged shoulder blades and veined wings unfurled from the shadows over Judai. That same silhouette had stalked the edge of his dimensional cage all those years ago, taloned feet clicking against shifting, unseen stones, deep laughter flitting between the sounds of his own dry, ragged breaths. Full lips parted over vampiric fangs. A shock of white hair spilled over skin etched with scales, and, with a perfect, fluid ease, Yubel rose over Judai. Clawed hands bracketed his chest, and Manjoume held Yubel’s familiar stare, the orange-green lights pulsing in the near-dark.

“’Hide’ is your word for it,” they purred, their wings folding in. “I just don’t see a reason to appear unnecessarily.”

Because he had no desire to get into a 4 a.m. shouting match with his rival’s demonic soulmate – who happened to be a reincarnation of Judai’s royal past-self’s childhood friend and also a duel spirit or something, something _like_ that – Manjoume kept it simple. But maybe his words were too honest, Yubel tilting their head in clear interest.

“Whenever I’m not around, you have to protect him.”

Those sharp teeth flashed when Yubel smirked, something about it like one of Judai’s own.

“I thought we understood each other better than _that_. Judai is the one I will always watch over, as we are together for all of eternity.” He had turned to leave, but Yubel continued. “You make those feelings of yours so obvious, my dear.”

“Shut up…”

“Your love answers to his pain, the same one that I feel. Ah, I wonder if that will be enough…” He knew they were still smirking. He could hear it. “Let’s both work hard for his sake, shall we?”

“As if I have a choice,” he whispered, and he shut the door behind him, Yubel’s stare burned into the insides of his eyelids.

\---

When he brought bagels back to the apartment for breakfast, Judai did an excellent job of rolling one onto its side and then tapping the table next to it. The take-away coffee did not fare any better, and Manjoume, on his third cup by 9 a.m., had developed a sporadic twitch in his right hand that he was not going to focus on.

Especially not when Judai was still rambling about the critically injured spirit, Bell.

“-so, establishing a better link between her and this world would probably help, but I think it’s beyond her right now. The timing is…all wrong. But the spirit world might-”

“Judai.”

Judai blinked at him. “Hmm? What’s up?”

“You need to eat that.”

The jet-black dining table had come with the apartment, and Manjoume hadn’t sat down at it in months, especially not with _actual_ plates and everything. Wary, most of the low-attack spirits kept to their drawer in the kitchen or the safe in the corner of his office, their chatter muted, easy to ignore. But, true to their nature, the Ojamas kept barging in when they were wanted the least, Judai’s murmurs cut off by the occasional chirp of, “Hey, Thunder!!” or, “Ta-da!” with some added confetti popping in mid-air and raining down on their plates. His had been empty for at least an hour.

“You’ve really changed since Duel Academia,” Judai said out of nowhere, tearing off a hunk of his bagel and, after some unnecessary staring, chewing it slowly. Because _he_ was not a moron, Manjoume ignored the distraction, the Ojamas filling his gap in the conversation with their noises. Yellow stuck his tongue out.

Sleep had not changed those dark circles, and, if anything, Judai’s bitten-down nails looked worse than before, his right thumb ending in a stark red gash. As he pushed away the half-empty plate, he straightened his low-set shoulders and dared a single glance at Manjoume, something that was not Yubel coiling behind his pupils and then vanishing.

“Bell and I have been practicing. Want to see?”

“Uh…”

Too late. The card had already hit the table, set as if it was in attack mode.

Ojama Black wandered over and stuck one foot on it. Squinting, he leaned down. “B…ell? Don’t think I know a ‘Bell’.”

Green was more enthusiastic, shaking Black and almost toppling the little spirit. “Hey, check it out! A zero-attack card! Just like us brothers!”

“She’s even a light-attribute beast card,” Judai added, and all three gasped, Yellow falling over in his hurry to check the text.

“O-Oh! Sure, that’s cool, but no _way_ is she as cool as us Ojama brothers!” Yellow declared, and he struck a pose that Manjoume would describe as ‘unfortunate’, Black and Green hurrying to his side and puffing their chests out. More confetti went everywhere.

“Hmm. Maybe I can change your mind,” Judai said, enigmatic, and when he spread his right hand above the card, Yubel’s claws flashed over his taut fingers. Slowly, carefully, he drew his hand back, and some intangible _thing_ in the air shifted, Manjoume jerking away from it, half-rising out of his chair.

The next surge of Judai’s hand was followed by a pulse of life within that empty card.

“Okay, all good so far. You ready?” Judai asked, his eyes on that scrap of a card. Manjoume could not hear the answer, but it made Judai’s smile widen. “Nice and easy. Let’s see…”

A small blue toe pushed up from the portrait, transparent like a normal duel spirit’s would be, and its underside showed an even smaller pink toepad. Another toe followed, and then another, three on that first paw. Suspended over the portrait, it moved a little, as if in the beginning of a human-like wave.

Judai’s smile was pure sunlight, and his earnest, encouraging whispers were constant, Yubel’s scales pulsating with each careful motion. “You’re doing great, Bell. A little further, okay?”

More blue fur rose up. The paw wiggled more and more, and then Manjoume glanced down. Judai’s left hand should have been lying flat on the table, like it had been before, but its fingers were gone. Its knuckles were gone, cut away in a smooth, curved line that pushed up further and further as Bell’s paw rose from the card and took more and more of Judai’s hand with it.

Manjoume snapped, his own hand slapping over Judai’s and covering some of those missing parts. “W-What the _fuck_ , Judai?!” he yelped, and his fingers caught on _nothing_ , just _nothing_. But the more and more he stared, the more he saw there, those calloused fingers just see-through, their details blurred.  

Like those of a spirit.

“It’s okay,” Judai whispered, and he repeated that. “It’s okay. Trust me.”

It was not fucking okay.

His thoughts were gone, taken in by that static. And the next time Judai raised his arm, Yubel’s hand, ghosting over his peaked knuckles, pushed down. The paw began to sink back into the card, its blue colour splitting into the lines of the paper. The cheery wave continued.

Warm fingers tangled with Manjoume’s own. A warm thumb brushed his knuckles, and the contact flipped some switch in his head. No, it _was_ not okay. Not even close.

He pulled away. The card between them felt empty again, that spark of life back inside Judai’s head, clouding it.

“You want to go to Ojama Country.” A silence laced with static, Judai’s eyes boring into his. He breathed in. “You…want to let Bell out in Ojama Country, even though you would be-”

“It makes sense,” Judai said, hurried, and his fingers twitched on the table, dragged against it.

\---

But something had to be confirmed first.

Judai’s coffee was still on the table, gone cold. The low-attack spirits remained curled in their places, their chatter like the push and pull of a distant tide, something he had known for a long time. When he drifted into Ojama Country, it was normally with the stark walls of the 14th-floor laboratory around him, strangers flitting in and out of sight, and the cold air scrapping down his exposed chest, over his ankles. Sometimes Dr. Krenshaw had her hand on his arm, her words a reassurance.

His apartment faded away in patches, some objects clinging to his reality. The cellphone on the table, waiting with more adjustments to his schedule, the sudden break a ‘personal emergency’. The framed photo propped up on the counter, an autumn leaves festival with Asuka and Sho in formal wear.

That first time, his hand had accidentally found Judai’s, and they had fallen over the threshold together. Now, Judai reached for him in the dark, and he let those fingers tangle with his own.

The Ojamas were next.

A clear sky spread overhead, its edges peeling away with a soft yellow, the streaks of blue matched with a pale grey. Mushroom trees dotted the horizon, the hills that rolled into it plunging into the high walls of the village, its Ojamas muted specks of colour. Below his clear feet, spotted insects picked through the yellow moss with their twitching antenna. In the real world, he had a travel heart monitor wound up his wrists, it set to alert a medical team if that rate spiked.

Being safe.

What a concept.

Behind him, Judai had already sat down, cross-legged, with the Ojamas around him in a makeshift circle, and he answered their questions about Bell with a deceptive ease, his white teeth showing.

Like he had before, Judai coaxed Bell out of his head, into the card, and _then_ directed her out of it, the Ojamas scrambling over him and poking at the little toes that emerged. They emerged tangible, the thin blue fur speckled with round shadows, and Judai’s left palm lay flat on the ground and parted the thin, green shoots that rose from it. The thin light traced the slopes of his knuckles.

“Stop it.”

As the Ojamas waved at the cat-like paw, Judai tilted his head to the side. The forest showed through it. “Manjoume?”

“Don’t you dare go further than this.”

When Judai raised that half-real hand and brushed against Bell’s paw, cracks showed in his expression, that weakness stark, vivid. “This temperature, she can’t remember feeling anything like it before. Taking that away… It’s cruel, isn’t it?”

“Judai.”

“Yeah, it _is_ warm here, so you’ll have to-”

“Judai!” Startled, Judai looked at him. “Judai, stop. We’re going back.”

But that wasn’t Judai, not really. His every impulse was contradicted those of the injured, desperate spirits that whispered as static, that indecision turning into something irrational, something dangerous. Broken shapes flittered across his wide eyes.

But Judai, his fingers shuddering, still lowered Bell’s paw back into the makeshift card, the toes wiggling into a wave, and Manjoume was quick to drag him back to the apartment. A familiar white ceiling bored down.

\---

Manjoume’s worst day on record had been a Wednesday, the one of his thirteen straight loss at the North American Pro League, the guilt crushing his throat and forcing hot tears down his face as the announcer continued from the stage, his own name said like a joke and drawing out laughter, a cruel sound. Although, spending the better part of a morning and all of an afternoon trying to coax actual sentences out of Yuki Judai was a close contender, Yubel’s phantom claws rolling over those low, shaking shoulders, trying to hold them still. From the fragments he heard, he gathered that Bell did _not_ want her saviour and dear friend to throw himself into some unidentified part of the spirit world, somewhere that no dimensional portal could reach, although she was grateful for his help. That statement had shut Judai up for over an hour.

None of the spirits wanted that fate for the person they loved, but their deep, perpetual fear still twisted him, seeping in like Darkness. It made Judai cast off the obvious solutions, the reasons irrational and given in rambling, half-whispered words.

The most obvious of those solution was Johan Andersen and his Rainbow Dragon. While it _would_ puncture the dimensional barrier, the rainbow bridge could let Judai return even if he was in his real body – provided that Manjoume hadn’t spaced out _too much_ during one of Dr. Krenshaw’s lectures and fucked up the details of it. His memory of the last company Christmas party that Pegasus had forced him to attend was much clearer, since Johan, featuring an eye-searing violet sweater and seasonally inappropriate canvas shoes, had rambled about Judai at the slightest provocation. Their numerous adventures involving illegal duel rings and card thieves had filled Manjoume’s dead half of the conversation, dead because he had been so fucking _jealous_ and no amount of imported red wine had seemed to help.

“Look, I’m a jerk,” Manjoume began, sitting on his coffee table and nursing his fifth (maybe?) cup of something caffeinated, “but even _I_ will not just leave you to rot in Ojama Country for some unknown amount of time. Weeks? Months? _Years_? With _Ojamas_?” He shuddered, Yellow pouting. “We can’t just wing this, although I understand why a proud Slifer Red would struggle with the _logic_ behind that. So, you need to let me call Johan, get a team together, and-”

Judai shot out of his chair, the legs screeching against the tiled floor. “No, I… I can’t.”

Had the circumstances been different, Judai would have already run off. But, then again, the simple fact was that Ojama Country belonged to him. Judai seemed bared from any other entry point to the spirit world, seemed so desperate that he had become caged by the chaos inside his own head.

“Did you and Johan have a fight or something?”

“W-What?! No!” Judai exclaimed, and he laughed a little, a strained sound. “I mean, it's been awhile, but that's no big deal.”

“He wasn't in your phone.”

“Oh, I lost my old one. Guess I...never got around to finding those numbers again. That sounds bad, doesn't it?”

Judai’s _memory_ was bad, probably yet-another side effect.

“Judai, we need someone else,” Manjoume said, and he stood up, his own exhaustion tilting the room. He could deal with it. “Ideally, we'd get the entire research team on our side, and-”

Shaking his head, Judai took a step back, his skin strangely pale, almost grey. After days of waiting, every hour an uncertain one, Judai had returned from the other dimension in their final year as a changed person – isolated and slow to respond, distant.

This was the other side of Judai’s desperation, the raw fear.

Manjoume stepped closer, and maybe a younger version of himself would have tried to shake Judai, as if reason could be forced into his head like that. Maybe he would have stormed out and left Judai standing alone in his apartment, head lolling back against an empty wall as the city lights cut through the greying sky. Maybe he would have given into his own despair.

The bolts of the shock collar had burned into Judai’s skin and left grey circles behind.

Judai had left his jacket on the table, and the collar must have had bracers to match it, the outlines seared over older scars. Always the hero, Manjoume thought as he put a tentative hand on Judai’s shoulder. But Judai hugged him first, his face pressed into the hollow of Manjoume’s neck, and Manjoume stared at the uneven paint on the wall, his fingers brushing Judai’s shoulder blades. Even like this, Judai was warm, and those calloused hands pressed into his back, kept him still as Judai’s short, shallow breaths rasped against his jaw.

“Idiot, I told you that I’m your strongest ally,” Manjoume mumbled, and when Judai shuddered, he ran his hand over the jagged line of those shoulders. He pressed his palm into the nape of Judai’s neck, the scar tissue passing underneath.

“You said you wouldn’t forgive me if I’d forgotten about that,” Judai answered as a whisper, and Manjoume chuckled, leaning into the body over his. Short hair passed under his palm.

“Maybe I’ll let you off easy. Just this once.”

\---


	5. New Field

\---

Johan Andersen smiled like he was being cast for a toothpaste commercial, laughed at things that weren’t meant to be funny, and, on more than one occasion, had tried to put his arm around Manjoume’s shoulders in one of those public touch-y feel-y gestures that _definitely_ clashed with his ‘cool guy Manjoume Thunder’ image. Of course, Johan was also Industrial Illusions’s resident expert on duel spirits, having one of those loosely defined yet extremely powerful roles at the company that let him glide through any set of security doors, always with a perfect smile set on his face and that purring gem cat-thing wrapped around his neck like a scarf.

Johan also looked too cheerful for someone who had just stepped off a fourteen-hour flight. The sequined star on his v-neck shirt (if, considering that Manjoume was now staring at his sternum, _that_ could even be called a shirt) was almost as flashy as his megawatt smile, reaching blinding levels when he spotted Manjoume. After side-stepping a hug, Manjoume led him to the company car, and the driver took off once they were both in the back, the partition up.

This would be a sensitive subject.

“Did you know that Judai had been stuffing his head full of injured duel spirits? I can take being left out of your little save-the-world adventures, but _this_ is over the line, Johan.”

Johan stared at him, unflinching, and ran his fingers over the transparent curve of the cat-thing’s forehead, the motion continuing as the silence between them stretched and stretched.

“I…was suspicious,” Johan said, “but that’s about it.”

More silence, although this time it was on Manjoume, the strain from those last few days doing weird, unapproved things to his head. Exhausted, Judai had given his approval last night with a lowered head, but getting it had taken hours, each felt like something sharp.

And _maybe_ Manjoume’s confident act now had a few too many holes in it.

The spirit let out a low purr as Johan’s knuckles ran over the back of its head. Johan continued. “What you said during our call sounds good to me. Oh, and I gave your plan to Dr. Zweinstein, and he approved it since we wouldn’t be ripping _too_ many holes between the worlds. Well, hopefully not.” Shrugging, he added, “It’s best to be careful with this stuff. Our world’s been through a lot lately, like the whole thing with Paradox.”

“Right.”

“So, how’s your Ojama research going? Those little guys can sure-”

“Let me get this straight,” Manjoume snapped. “You, as Judai’s best friend, are not surprised by _any_ of this? His head is full of stray duel monster spirits. He’s been keeping them alive with his own energy. He…” He breathed in, aware that Johan’s spirit had its back arched, its tail fixed in a straight line. At least he was getting a reaction out of _someone_ , as Johan, apparently made of fucking _stone_ , just stared at him. “To summon them, parts of his own body disappear, like… He almost fell through a table. I watched it happen.”

“Judai’s powers aren’t like ours, so it’s hard to say what he can’t do at this point.”

“Oh? Well, that’s just great,” Manjoume replied, fingers clawed. He ran them through his hair. It hurt. “Judai, he wants to let that injured spirit out in Ojama Country. We don’t know where that is in the dimensional map- No, actually, we don’t even know what _dimension_ it’s in.” He breathed in again, harder. “He would’ve been stuck there until-”

“Until the Ojamas figured out how to make a warp gate, probably.”

His hand was suddenly on Johan’s shoulder, puncturing the transparent image of the duel spirit that now hissed into the hollow of his wrist, and his fingers clenched hard enough to hurt, to hurt both of them. Their eyes locked, Johan’s narrow and bright green.

Behind them was something strong.

“I’m sorry,” Johan said, and he carefully reached for Manjoume’s arm and pushed it back. “That’s another thing Judai and I have in common. We both tell a lot of jokes, and sometimes, well, they don’t land right.”

That joke had hit Manjoume like a knife to the chest. He said nothing.

“It’s clear how I really feel, isn’t it? I couldn’t sense the other spirits, even though that’s all I’ve studied since I graduated. I mean, it’s my _job_ to know about this stuff.” Johan continued in the same quiet way, in a way that didn’t match his eyes. “After our last trip together, he vanished. I mean, not like he normally does. This time he really put distance between us.” Johan shook his head. “Imagine my surprise when it turned out that he was with you, about to try something that, as you said, could’ve left him...”

Another silence, and Manjoume watched the blurred shapes outside the window, the rigid angles of high-rises, the puzzle-like edges of the passing city. Around them, the stream of traffic continued – harsh lights streaking by, stark reflections forming on the windows.

“You’re not good at comforting people, are you?”

Manjoume snorted. “Did you actually expect that from _me_?”

“Point taken,” Johan replied with an airy laugh. “Ah, Judai… I love him, but he can be-”

Manjoume had stopped listening. His eyes were locked on the passing city, all the colours sliding together.

\---

“You doing alright, Boss?”

“Shut it,” Manjoume muttered, Johan glancing over at him with raised eyebrows. Ojama Yellow, being, of course, Ojama _Yellow_ , did not shut it, massive tears forming in his beady eyes.

“B-Boss, you’re taking on so much responsibility!” he sniffled, the tears now accompanied by globs of snot. “You need a break! Your poor, poor shoulders might snap! It’s so, so tragic and- Oh, how about a spa day?” Immediately the waterworks turned off, and Ojama Black and Green popped into existence, high-fiving in agreement.

“Good idea, bro!”

“Yeah! Let’s get mud baths!”

“And matching pedicures,” Ojama Yellow added sagely, wiping his nose with his briefs.

“Sounds like fun. Hey, can I come?” Johan asked with a sly wink, and the back of Manjoume’s head cracked against the window as he reeled back, the Ojama brothers shrieking in concern. He swatted them away, Ojama Green already in a bath robe and slippers.

“N-No offense, Crystal Guy. You seem cool and all, but this is a teambuilding exercise. You know, synergy. Coordination. And…” Ojama Yellow, now in a matching bath robe, tilted his head. “Hmmm. Hey, do you guys know any other business-y words? I’m all out!”

“Business,” Ojama Black said, and there was another round of high-fives, the _noise_ digging into Manjoume’s head. He swatted them away again, Ojama Yellow squeaking “Gee, he really is wound up!” before vanishing with the others.

“You sure you can’t convince them to let me come?” Johan asked, pouting, and Manjoume leaned back into his seat with two fingers working on the sudden tension between his eyebrows. Once they reached the apartment complex, he was going to throw his keys at Johan – who could go deal with the walking disaster known as Yuki Judai – and _then_ camp out at the downstairs café with a cappuccino, two pieces of cheesecake, and, most importantly, a distance of at least ten meters between him and the next living, breathing human being. Maybe that would leave him on the steps outside, getting his custom-ordered jeans more distressed than they should be, but, seriously, that didn’t matter. Nothing like that could matter right now.

As soon as the car stopped, he, true to his word, shoved his keys at Johan, pointed at the elevator, and tried to put as much sugar and caffeine into his body as humanly possible. Because he _could_ , he added some tiramisu and chocolate mousse to his order. When he saw the 50-something messages waiting in his inbox, all from his manager about the changes to his schedule, he trudged back to the counter and ordered another cappuccino, plus more cheesecake.

There was no reasonable way to explain the situation without mentioning Yuki Judai, his self-destructive former classmate slash rival who had a bunch of spirits living in his head, a homicidal demon for a soulmate, a homicidal King of Darkness hanging out _somewhere_ (seriously, how did Judai have the _space_ for all of these guys?), and a bad habit of falling into other dimensions. Oh, and it was worth emphasizing the self-destructive part.

Manjoume stabbed at his next slice, the strawberry glaze splitting apart.

Like the building’s exterior, the café was all rigid, competing shapes – the ceiling set with mirrored triangles, the effect like shattered glass – and monochromatic colours, mainly glossy, jet blacks and stark whites. The light pouring in through the wide, wall-spanning windows edged every surface with yellow-orange, more light spilling onto the floor in shifting, bright shapes, the colour split by the grey shadows of swaying trees, of spread leaves. Outside, the passing traffic was thin, indicative of how early it was.

Manjoume had been awake for a long time. Vivid pink-red, he had watched the sunrise reach over the skyline, its buildings pushing up as stiff, dark shadows, and then peel away to reveal orange, then blue. Meeting Johan at the airport had been a professional courtesy.

He had also needed to get out of the apartment and clear his _own_ damn head for once.

The soft curl of cheesecake on the edge of his fork looked picture perfect, but its sickeningly sweet taste almost made him choke. He washed it down with more caffeine, his elbow knocking his cellphone off the table. Good riddance. It could stay there, the notification light already flashing.

His cup clinked hard against its saucer, the rich, dark liquid sloshing over the side. Earlier that day, when they were in the car, Johan had said that he lov-

“Did he expect me to _relate_ to that? Seriously, that guy…” Manjoume muttered, his mouth set in a snarl. The static was back in his head again, filling it with a low, droning noise. It seemed to oscillate when his thoughts turned, as they had for a while now, back to what Johan had said with the same light, careless tone, the same one he had used to confirm who Judai really was, who he had become after all these years. And, _fuck_ , it-

The static reached him even here, several floors of distance between them.

“Get over it, Thunder. You’re better than this,” Manjoume mumbled into his palm. Sure, some amount of brooding was good for his image (brooding had done wonders for Seto Kaiba, after all), but _this_ was getting too serious. Frowning led to wrinkles. Weird outbursts in coffeeshops led to unflattering media reports.

Cake proved to be a good distraction, and he moved onto the lemon blueberry cheesecake, the white surface streaked with yellow, blue, and the purple-red of split berries. A sweet syrup was spread around the plate, circling the cake, and he dragged his fork through it, smearing the design. The Ojama brothers were hovering somewhere behind him. He could feel it.

They were quiet.

“Hey, come here,” he muttered, and when they finally floated over, their little heads were pressed together in what had to be the most pathetic group hug of all time. Damn it. “Look, I’m pissed off, but it has nothing to do with you guys. I’m going to figure it out, so just… You know.” Sighing, Manjoume ran a hand over his face, almost in disbelief of what he was about to say. He had to be a masochist or something. Or maybe he was brainwashed again. “Just act like yourselves, okay?”

As expected, there was a grand Ojama party, complete with a choreographed dance across an empty plate, two of the brothers working together to lift Ojama Yellow for a grand finish. Far more finger hearts than necessary were thrown at Manjoume, the necessary amount being zero. Because he could, he let the Ojamas pick a few things off the menu as, even if they couldn’t eat any of it, they liked to have long, rambling discussions about different human ingredients, such as whipped cream, and how they were made. Plus, one time in Ojama Country, Manjoume had seen something that looked suspiciously like a fruit sundae in Ojama Green’s room, if a fruit sundae could contain some dirt, potato slices, and what looked like gemstones. Clearly, Green needed to check his references better.

“Hey, Boss! What’s this thing?”

“Banana slice,” Manjoume said around his fork.

“Hmm… Hey, doesn’t it look like you?” Ojama Black asked, and all the colour drained from Ojama Yellow’s face.

“W-W-What?! H-Hey, Boss, how’s this made?!”

“Use your head for once,” he replied. A bitter taste stayed in his mouth, and he dug into the next dessert.

“Use…my head?” Ojama Yellow repeated, taking the instructions quite literally and feeling around his forehead, careful to avoid his eyestalks. “Uhhhh…. Boss?”

“He wants you to think a little harder, that’s all,” Johan – who had appeared out of _nowhere_ and suddenly clapped a hand on Manjoume’s back – said with a lop-sided smile, and everything on the table clattered together as Manjoume’s knee shot up, the parfait colliding with a stack of cups and tipping over as the Ojamas gasped in horror. Manjoume, having the reflexes of a pro duelist, threw his hand out and caught it at the last second, the strawberry on top still in place and glinting under the artificial lights. The Ojamas, predictably, had yet-another celebration, which Manjoume looked away from as Johan slid a chair over.

“So… It looks like you’ve already ordered for me.”

Manjoume snorted. “You’re on Pegasus’s bankroll, aren’t you? Get your own food.”

Johan laughed, his eyes bright like stars, like how Judai’s used to be when-

Fuck.

“Did you forget someone?” Manjoume asked, raising his cup.

“Oh, no. Judai’ll be down in a bit.”

 _That_ made him laugh, the cup shaking. “Yeah, sure. He’s probably climbing out my window right now.” He put it down. “I hope that slacker doesn’t damage anything. I can guarantee he’s never heard of a security deposit because, you know, you need a place to _live_ before one of those comes up in conversation.”

“He’s really getting to you, isn’t he?”

Usually, when an opponent received one of Manjoume’s signature glares, they had the courtesy to look intimidated, some even going so far as to drop their cards or, in one memorable case, forfeit altogether. With a piece of tiramisu perched in front of him and his hands laced behind his head, Johan looked like he was lounging at some beach-side resort.

His smile widened.

“Well, guess I’m right about that…”

He caught the fork that Manjoume chucked at him. Letting Johan eat was preferable to letting him talk, and, just as he had predicted, the jet-lagged duelist across from him set about destroying the nearest dessert.

He was scrolling through his messages when it started: a familiar trilling sound, low like a whisper. Then, it grew louder, accompanied by the flutter-beat of feathered wings and clicking of clawed feet on tile, and Manjoume clenched one hand in his coat, aware of the pounding inside his head, the gathering of the static.

Around him, the spirits were coming together, the Ojamas shooting over to Winged Kuriboh and Ruby Carbuncle while more and _more_ Crystal Beasts appeared, shifting in as overlapping beams of prismatic light. Johan had already walked over and pulled Judai into a hug. The hand pressed tight against Johan’s back was Judai’s. The other hand dragging Johan even closer, sliding up Johan’s bare neck, was also Judai’s, and those dark eyes flashed orange-green as their faces brushed together.

Johan had leaned into the contact, had let Judai’s chin drag along his jawline.

Those eyes pinned Manjoume in place, seconds dragging by as Johan muttered something into the hollow of Judai’s throat, each low word punctuated by a shift in Judai’s strange, glazed expression. Slowly, Judai’s fingers ran up the nape of Johan’s neck. One eye was molten orange. Both were narrow.

Both were on Manjoume still.

Eventually they broke apart, Johan’s shoulders rolling back while Judai’s hands dropped to his sides, and Johan returned to his usual place at the table and dug back into his tiramisu while the cat spirit settled in his lap. The scrape of chair legs against tile had to be Judai, now a blurred shape in Manjoume’s peripheral vision. Overlapping squeaks and murmurs sounded around him, the other spirits spreading throughout the café, flitting in and out of sight as they hid in the thinnest shadows, a part of their game. With a steady hand, Manjoume raised and drained his cup, as if acting normal would be enough to set his thoughts in place.

It wasn’t, of course.

He breathed in through clenched teeth, blinking back the afterimage of those eyes when Judai’s lips had first parted. He set the cup down. His chest, it felt-

No. Not now.

Thanks to his privileged upbringing, Manjoume Jun knew an _almost_ foolproof way of solving any problem, no matter how complex.

“Here.”

Judai glanced up, his eyes empty again. The dark circles below were edged with grey, dull like old bruises. “What is it?”

“It’s my credit card, dumbass.” Judai gave him such a pathetic look in response that Manjoume was forced to continue, waving the card as if that would make him focus on it. “Look, just go up to the counter and get yourself a coffee or something, whatever you want. Tap it against the machine, and then you’re good to go.” No reaction, and Manjoume growled, “Just do it, slacker.”

He felt like an idiot, his hand just millimeters away from Judai’s own. Finally, just when he was going to give up, Judai pushed his chair out, stood up, and took the card. When Judai reached the counter, his neck bent, Manjoume switched his target to Johan, who had his chin propped up on his palm and a fork spinning between two loose fingers.

“Looks like you want to ask me something,” Johan remarked, his perfect white teeth on display, and, while he executed a series of flips and turns with the fork, balancing it on his knuckles, Manjoume tried to piece together a question that wasn’t just, “ _Hey, what the fuck_?”

“You…” Fuck. Try again. “Is there anything I should know about Judai right now, or, like, you _and_ Judai, that might…?” Now _this_ was a conversation that he was going to be replaying in his head for weeks. At some point he’d come up with the perfect sentence, probably when he was in the shower, and every little thing about Johan’s calm smile in the present felt entirely unfair.

“Oh. I’m…not sure what to say, actually,” Johan said, shrugging off his sudden glare. “Hey, I’m serious!”

“Fine, whatever,” Manjoume muttered. “Not like I even care.”

“Suit yourself,” Johan said, shrugging again. “All we’ve gotta do for now is focus on the plan. What happens after that…” A slight shift in his expression, so slight that Manjoume almost missed it. Johan recovered quickly. “Well, we’ll talk about it then, won’t we?”

When Judai returned with a cup of black coffee, all he did was stare at it and, if Manjoume stared too hard at him, stirred it with loud, sharp clinks of metal on porcelain. Slowly, Johan drew him into a conversation about some rumored support cards targeting low-level monsters, and, even if the topic was simple, just hesitant speculation, Judai gave short, careful responses.

It was enough, for now.

\---

Dr. Krenshaw greeted them at the front doors and fell into position behind Johan as they went up to the testing room, the sentences passing between them like ciphers to Manjoume, just numerals and acronyms with the occasional chuckle from Johan. Crossing his arms, Manjoume tried to focus, as –despite dressing like he had fought a bunch of rhinestones and, evidently, lost horribly – Johan actually knew what he was doing. The patent white cowboy boots were especially distracting, and the conversation switched to a bunch of multi-syllable words that sounded dimension-esque, Johan’s last ending in “-anomalous”.

Judai was a folded shape in the corner of the elevator. When it stopped, Manjoume waited for Judai to leave first, as if that shadow would just stay there otherwise, trying to shrink itself.

Predictably, the team at Industrial Illusions had filled out his original plan with the necessary details to make it work, complete with a bullet-point list that Dr. Kendrew had passed out copies of. First were the fundamentals: getting Johan to Ojama Country and back in spirit form; testing if Rainbow Dragon could link the two worlds; and, as expected, running a few preliminary tests on Yuki Judai to “ensure his safety”. And maybe if Judai had _read_ the damn thing, instead of crumpling it in his back pocket, he would have protested that last point. For their previous trips there, Judai had refused anything more invasive than a wrist monitor.

While the room was being configured, Manjoume went and found a vending machine. The black coffee that came out could hardly be called that, the taste curling his tongue. The sandwich was dented but, if the label could be trusted, edible. Manjoume shoved it at Judai when he returned, immediately striding to the other side of the room and snapping out orders. By the time the first electrode was applied, sticking to his skin and holding in place, Judai had managed to take one bite, and Manjoume watched as the rest disappeared into a coat pocket. The Ojamas blathered in his ear about irrelevant things, mundane things. Ruby Carbuncle purred, and he sank into the noise, fingers drifting over the familiar card.

He took another person with him.

The burst of sky made his eyes water, and, because Manjoume Thunder did _not_ cry, he wiped at them with his sleeve, already standing while Johan, blinking rapidly, pushed himself off the ground. Familiar slopes of green rose in the distance and sunk down into the dusty village resting in the valley’s center. Sunlight fell through his hands.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, dragging his foot through dirt. It left no mark.

“Yeah, of course.” Johan’s usual smile was in place. “Dr. Zweinstein said that five minutes would be a good marker, so, uh…” A laugh. “Guess I should start my timer.”

“Should’ve,” Manjoume corrected as Johan fumbled with his watch. Around them, the Ojamas ran in loose circles, little patches of dust trailing after their feet, and it wasn’t long before their white-knuckled hands were trying to drag them to the village, clenching through Manjoume’s jeans and Johan’s hideous boots. Arguing required energy that Manjoume had used up on someone else, and he followed the prancing Ojamas. Johan bothered to engage with them.

Aside from a new stack of radishes in the town square and the _apparent_ use of his statue as a clothesline, twenty-something identical pairs of red briefs flapping in the wind, the town looked exactly like it had before. Regardless, Ojama Yellow launched in a prepared speech on the latest advancements in Ojama technology (as if they could even be worth mentioning) and his brothers took turns putting up cue cards, the rest of the village congregating around them with cheers, dances, and, naturally, a few skeptical looks at Johan.  

Only once did Manjoume see the outline of the cat spirit, skirting past Johan’s feet and then jumping into nothing.

Johan’s watch had passed the two-minute mark when he cleared his throat, his expression turning apologetic.

“So, I have a little experiment that I’d like to try…”

He sighed. Of _course_.

“Ah, don’t make that face,” Johan said. “I was just thinking we could cut step one short and skip to step two-”

“What?!”

“Well, Rainbow Dragon is more than enough to get our spirits home, don’t you think?” Manjoume’s frown twisted, and Johan continued. “…Which would show that Rainbow Dragon can make the right link, and, you know, I’ve read reports about the stress doing this places on your body and-”

Manjoume’s sudden laugh startled them both. It scraped up his throat and ended in a rough, dry cough.

“Please, Johan,” he began, baring his teeth, “it’s insulting to be lied to like that. At least put some effort in.”

“Manjoume, I’m not-”

“ _You_ want to get back because you just left Judai in a laboratory crawling with Pegasus’s goons and they might skip to step three without you being there to supervise it all. No, wait. Hold on.” He sneered. “No, you’re as irresponsible as he is. The real reason is because you _just_ thought of some reason to skip the tests altogether, and this, right now, is your time to swoop in and save the day.”

Johan held his stare.

He said nothing, and, for the second time that day, Manjoume threw back his head and laughed until it hurt. The last sharp sounds that caught on his teeth.

He tasted something bitter.

“Sure,” he said, and _that_ made Johan start. “Sure, do whatever you want.” One more chuckle, ragged. “As if anyone could stop you.”

“That’s…” Johan trailed off. He had taken a step forward. His outstretched hand had brushed Manjoume’s arm. “You need to rest after this, Manjoume. I can keep an eye on Judai for now.”

“Knock yourself out.”

And, with that, Manjoume pivoted on his heel and walked into the crowd, their little voices raising as they followed him past the statue. He climbed up the dusty cliff overlooking the village, Ojama Red and Ojama Blue racing ahead. From there, the village spread out in tiers below, he saw the card that Johan held up begin to shimmer, and the brothers were already at his coattails, their frantic questions overlapping.  

He stayed until Rainbow Dragon appeared, fracturing the sky and letting blinding, coloured light pour down like water, the rivulets hitting the ground and exploding in broken, fractured starbursts, hundreds and thousands all at once. And from it all, a serpentine body rose and stretched, serrated teeth parting as it wailed itself into existence. Gems formed and sparked like stars, like stars on the surface of deep water. Johan reached for his iconic monster with open arms, and great feathered wings lowered and wrapped around him. The dragon let out a soft sound as the flurry of lights faded, settled into a vertical bridge that led up and into the cloudless sky.

In the blink of an eye, Johan was gone, and his dragon suddenly snapped its wings out and forced them down, the resulting wind enough to make the Ojamas cower behind Manjoume, who watched it pass over the rainbow bridge, every wingbeat making the sky pulse and spark with strange new colours.

He blinked slowly, starbursts still behind his eyelids. Breathing in, he let everything drop away, and the Ojama brothers scampered ahead, their little palms and fingers tangible for the instant that they led him through the door.

When Manjoume opened his eyes, he had already pulled the leads off his wrists and chest. He shoved them at the nearest assistant, swung himself out of the chair, and yanked the remaining leads off his ankles. A tacky gel stuck to his shirt when he dragged it down. He shoved his unlaced boots on, grabbed his coat, and strode out of the room, aware of the people moving around him, collecting equipment, talking about what Judai had done.

Judai was in the hallway, his head in his hands.

And, naturally, so was Johan, crouched down to Judai’s level and nodding along to the slight whispers.

Manjoume turned and walked away. The few sentences he had overheard from the lab assistants told the simple, stupid story of how Judai had slipped out of the room and made for the exit halfway through the experiment, unnoticed until Johan had suddenly burst out of his chair and taken off after him.

\---

“Y-You sure we should be here, Boss?”

“Yeah! What if they need us for another test?” Ojama Green added, flexing alongside Ojama Black. “No one can do it like us Ojamas! Right, brothers?”

“Yeah!!”

“That’s for sure!”

“Plus,” Ojama Green continued, floating through Manjoume’s front door when he slammed it, “we gotta show up that Johan guy! No one comes to _our_ village and puts on a better firework show than the Ojamas!”

“More fireworks!”

“Hey, Boss, maybe you could-?”

Manjoume slammed another door, and this time the spirits stayed behind it. He stood in his dark bedroom, breathing hard.

Of course this Judai would panic.

Of _course_ Johan would be the one to notice it, to _predict_ it. Ruby Carbuncle had slipped through the open door to warn him, appearing as more than just a trick of the light.

His inbox already had two new messages from Johan, the second containing a tentative timetable for Bell’s transfer: two days from now, all within a few seconds. The first he refused to open out of principle, considering that the subject line was an apology.

Kicking off his boots, Manjoume dropped onto his bed. His cellphone fell somewhere.

The silence continued.

\---


	6. The Reason

\---

“-still hasn’t been broken. It’s been over two years since anyone’s taken a game off him, even in practice.”

“Well, if he’s _so_ great, why don’t you go work for Edo instead?”

Misako stopped filing her nails and raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re acting like I haven’t tried that already.”

It wasn’t a joke, and Manjoume spun in his office chair, Misako’s projection moving with him. Fifteen minutes into their video call and all his manager had reported on were other duelists, which could only mean one thing.

“The Pro League’s points system is changing again. You’ve confirmed the rumours, haven’t you?”

Carefully, Misako lowered her file. “With the new intercontinental multiplier, the total amount of PL-approved duels completed each season will play a much bigger role than it did before. Plus,” she added, twisting one silver-green earring, “the current ranking of each opponent will add yet-another multiplier, meaning that getting the top guys to take our calls will be…difficult. They won’t have the incentive that the current system brings to seek out lower-ranked duelists.”

Manjoume propped his legs up on his desk, Ojama Green scrambling to get out of the way. Yellow and Black were somewhere on the ceiling, still trying to find the spider that Manjoume had pointed out earlier (there, of course, was no spider, but it _had_ shut them up). Green was their designated scout, watching the door in case it tried to escape.

“For what it’s worth, Thunder, the other 24-48 managers and I have already submitted a formal complaint,” Misako said as she pushed back her straight bangs, her matching silver rings clacking together. “The angle we’ve chosen is the stagnation one, as the current priority seeding in the regional tournaments already gives the top guys a significant advantage. We’re proposing an elimination of this second multiplier entirely, at least until a better one can be developed.”

“Even if that goes through, the top 1-10 will just keeping buying more officials. The top 11-23 will, of course, play along like they always do, hoping to maintain their pathetic positions.” Manjoume laughed to himself. “Ah, yes… The two evils of politics and economics. I should really hire my brothers as consultants.” Sure, their hourly rates would drain his bank account in minutes, but it would be worth it just to see their faces.

Misako cleared her throat. “The corruption is not that widespread,” she said, and Manjoume rolled his eyes. Yeah, _right_. “Edo Phoenix himself has issued a public statement criticizing the new multiplier, and the fans are already on his side.”

“Nice of Captain Justice to care about the little people,” Manjoume commented, swiveling towards the window. Green did an impressive jump over his ankles.

“The real hurtle for us,” Misako began, Green gasping at ‘hurtle’ and attempting a pun (“Yeah! Like your legs, Boss! Like… Uhh.”), “is the intercontinental multiplier, which no one is disputing. Our current strategy of hitting the minimum requirements for North America, Europe, and Asia each season won’t work anymore, since those who target just one or two regions will outpace us.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Your work with Industrial Illusions should-”

“I get it,” Manjoume snapped, feet hitting the floor. He breathed in. “We can talk about this when I’m back in Japan.”

“Please don’t misunderstand me. Having Industrial Illusions on our side is an advantage, and it also gives you a lot of positive press. I would recommend cutting down on the European tournaments, allowing you to have more time in North America and Asia. Although,” she added while Manjoume stopped himself from interrupting her with something childish, something _stupid_ , “we can discuss this on Saturday, when we’ve both had time to consider our options.”

The call ended shortly after that. Manjoume had calls to return with sponsors, an interview to finish with a journalist. Outside, thin trees swayed with the passing wind, their branches arched like fingers, splitting like spilled ink.

He stared at them for a long time.

\---

Another sleepless night, and then Manjoume found himself in the central lobby of Industrial Illusions’s West Research Center with a large spiced latte in one hand, burning his palm whenever the sleeve slipped down, and his cell in the other, vibrating with a series of messages from Misako on yet-another scheduling conflict. The massive pendulum clock spanning the opposite wall had the time as exactly 8:00 a.m., and, rendered as the two gold, intersecting lines of the clock face, this time stuck in his head in a way that the little numerals bordering his inbox did not.

It meant that he was early, _very_ early.

Striding over to the elevators, he punched in an access code that he had seen Dr. Krenshaw use. Maybe it would take him to a secret scientists-only café where he could get a better drink.

It took him to the top floor and out onto the helipad, and the greying city below stretched out until the horizon, split only by the deep blue of the jagged coastline. Here, the order of it all was obvious, the roads forming a massive grid that shifted as cars covered it, hid parts of it, and all of their angles were uniform, compatible. New buildings spiralled into the sky, their sides glinting like wet scales in the morning light, construction cranes clinging to them, but they were still contained by the usual, the expected, the confines of this spreading grid.  

Some things, after all, were inescapable.

A stark taste ran over his tongue. Dropping the sleeve, he let the warmth press into his palms. A wind pulled at his hair, at his clothes.

For days, he had avoided thinking about it: the boneless way Judai had slumped over in the hallway, his thin fingers knotted in his long, dark bangs. And even now, _especially_ now, Manjoume pushed it away again.

The wind was cold.

A tremor had gathered in Judai’s wrists, had tightened his white-knuckled grip. And, in the present, Manjoume closed his eyes, breathed in through clenched teeth. Some things, they were-

“Why, it’s Jun-chan!”

At the coo of Pegasus J. Crawford’s voice, Manjoume braced himself against the railing and, consequently, dropped his cup, it falling several stories and smashing into the raised walkway below. Overpriced latte splattered all over the otherwise-impeccable mosaic. By the time Pegasus – dressed in a purple double-breasted suit with floral embellishments, embossed gold-plated buttons, and foxglove brooch pinned at the collar – had reached him with a cordial handshake extended and several backhanded compliments ready, two staff members had already darted out to clean up the mess.

“Well, you certainly know how to liven things up around here, don’t you?” Pegasus remarked, glancing over Manjoume’s shoulder with one raised eyebrow. A fleet of bodyguards had taken up position by the helipad, two remaining to shadow their boss. Their identical frowns told Manjoume that, somehow, a dropped latte counted as a security threat.

“Why do all of your goons have moustaches? Is that part of their job description or something?”

“My, my, aren’t you confrontational this morning!” Lace fell over Pegasus’s diamond cufflinks as he raised one hand to his chin. “For someone who is, technically speaking, in a restricted area without a pass code, you may want to draw less attention to yourself. Hmm, Jun-chan?”

“For someone with a billion-dollar company,” Manjoume said, smirking, “you don’t seem to take security very seriously.”

Pegasus let out an airy laugh. “Ah, touché!” A sound started to build in the distance, a rumble pierced with an oscillating, high-pitched wail, and Pegasus pivoted on his heel with a careless shrug, silver hair pouring over his back. “Or, maybe I don’t see the point in locking people in cages, as they always seem to break out regardless. Too much effort for such little reward...”

The wind threw Manjoume’s coat open, its cold pressing into him.

“Is that same courtesy extended to Yuki Judai?” Manjoume asked, and Pegasus glanced back, met his glare as the wind roared around them, the approaching helicopter a black smudge against the blue sky.

“Now, my reputation isn’t low enough to warrant a question like _that_.”

“Like _what_?”

Some disappointment showed through when Pegasus sighed, and, suddenly wary, Manjoume watched him throw a careless gesture at his security guards, who turned and walked away with even strides. Overhead, rotor blades made a dark pattern, a flickering circle.

“Perhaps he would tell you, perhaps he would not,” Pegasus began. “The truth is that I made a very generous offer to Yuki Judai this morning, as his affinity for all things related to duel spirits is, no offense, unrivalled at the present moment. He would be a contractor for Industrial Illusions, ensuring that our actions do not upset the spirit world nor the duel spirits that we all love and rely on. Although, I suppose that he’s the dramatic kind, since I don’t have an answer yet.” Manjoume stared at him, and Pegasus shrugged again. “Maybe your little rescue mission today will help him decide.”

“He won’t take it.”

The helicopter jerked against the concrete, its rotors continuing their dizzying, frantic motion, and when Pegasus turned back to face him, the wind pushed his silver hair up and away from his face. It scattered against the blue sky. It fell back over Pegasus’s healed-over eye socket, the stark red of its bowled surface matted with deep scars.

“I hope he does. In my experience, spirits of any kind can be dangerous.” With a practiced motion, Pegasus brushed his hair forward, strands still escaping, letting the red show through. And Manjoume, his next breath caught. “I also fear that his past mistakes will continue to define his future, which is a sad fate for any person.”

“R-Right,” he forced out, flinching at Pegasus’s sudden smile, another brush of wind revealing scars, tapered like those made by claws, by sharp nails.

“Try your best to convince him, Jun-chan.”

And with that, Pegasus strode towards the helicopter, a smooth briefcase by his side and swinging with each purposeful, measured step. And, even after it had taken off, Manjoume stayed there, fingers wrapped around the railing behind him as he took in fast, shallow breaths, each one lacking, not enough.

\---

“Boss, you’re all twitch-y again…”

“That’s the caffe-ine!” Ojama Black announced, puffing out his chest, and Manjoume, for what had to the best the hundredth time that day, wondered why the universe was using him as its chew toy. Snapping at the Ojamas just made them fuss over him, Ojama Yellow assuring him earlier that his statue had been polished ten times that day (as if _that_ made a difference, considering the whole thing was just dirt), and, to make matters worse, ignoring the Ojamas made them needy, their ramblings inevitably ending in tears and group hugs.

Although, maybe they had a point about the caffeine, his second black coffee smacking against the table when he put it down. Even a broken clock was right twice a day. Or something.

For some inane reason, Johan had scheduled a brief meeting before the actual transfer, and, judging by the empty room, Manjoume was early once again, leaving him with the _pleasant_ task of scrolling through his messages and ignoring the competing voices in his head.

Ojama Yellow’s was particularly shrill that morning.

“-and the balcony is a nice touch, right? Although, if we had more time, then we could finish the flower basket too… It’s hard fixing up a storehouse.”

“That’s okay!” Ojama Green declared, throwing one fist over his head, and Manjoume quickly discovered that he’d left his headphones on his desk, meaning that _this_ was all he had to listen to: an ongoing discussion of Ojama redecorating.

“Why did I accept Pegasus’s offer in the first place? Why am I not at some Pro League match? The cheering fans, the admiration, the _sponsorship_ deals,” Manjoume grumbled to himself, his forehead meeting the conference table. Maybe he could just sleep through the presentation, although the Ojamas’ babbling alone would prevent that.

 “Uhh… Wait, aren’t you the one who went to Pegasus first…?”

“Yeah, that was our Boss!” Yellow stated. “I remember that day perfectly… It was raining-”

“Wasn’t it snowing?”

“-snowing! Anyways, the Boss went up to that Pegasus guy and said, ‘Listen!” Ojama Yellow began, dropping his voice for an impression of Manjoume that somehow sounded more like Cronos de Medici. “If you fools at Industrial Illusions keep messing with the spirit world, then you’re going to have to deal with me. Because, no one, and I mean no one, gets off treating my valued allies like toys, got it?’”

If anyone asked, Manjoume would deny every word of that statement, although there _was_ some truth in Industrial Illusions’s early dimensional experiments causing certain, ah, _complications_ with the space over Ojama Country, which had resulted in Manjoume being woken up at 4:30 a.m. after a 10-hour layover by three pale, trembling Ojamas. Their genuine sobs had snapped something brittle in his chest, and no amount of security could have stopped Manjoume from storming Pegasus’s penthouse apartment, scattered rumours enough for him to determine the cause of it all. Pegasus hadn’t offered him anything that day.

He had demanded it.

With a sharp click, the double doors of the conference room swung open, and in walked Johan Andersen, vibrant spirits darting out of sight behind him. The absent cat spirit told Manjoume everything he wanted to know, and he nodded at Johan’s greeting.

“So, how’s your morning going?” Johan asked, taking a chair two away from Manjoume’s own. Perhaps inspired by his boss, Johan had a lilac sweater on and, judging by his plain blue slacks, had decided to cut down on his usual amount of sparkle, which Manjoume silently appreciated.

Answering Johan’s question proved to be difficult, because the honest answer went like, _“Well, just a few minutes ago I ran into Pegasus J. Crawford and randomly accused him of wanting to keep Judai as a lab rat, which, obviously, I had no evidence for or any fucking reason for saying that. Oh, and in response, he gave me some good life advice while showing me the place where his left eye used to be.”_

“Let’s just say that your boss owes me a latte,” Manjoume said, taking a pointed sip of his black coffee, and Johan’s eyebrows shot up. The sudden appearance of thirty people in lab coats ended their conversation, and Manjoume found himself shaking a few hands while trying to remember names, his eyes crossing whenever he glanced at their neat identification pins, each with a different Funny Bunny. The seconds were ticking away, drawing the moment closer, and he recoiled when Ruby Carbuncle twisted by his legs, its red orb catching the light as it sprinted away, paws drifting over the floor.

Overheard, Winged Kuriboh hummed to itself, and when Manjoume looked up, it had already blinked out of sight.

Judai had taken the seat next to him. Johan, on the left, had a hand running up the inside of Judai’s wrist, and Manjoume, aware that he was staring, finally saw how fragile Judai really was, his composure breaking like a dry leaf during a storm, its body slowly torn apart by the wind. Empty, dark eyes watched nothing, saw nothing. The voices in Judai’s head must have reached a cacophony, or maybe, maybe even worse than that, they were growing silent.

Like Judai, he flinched when Johan stood up.

Johan, with a lasting touch to Judai’s palm, strode away, took up position at the front of the room, and launched into a short summary of the benefits of their research, of the potential rehabilitation Industrial Illusions could now offer to damaged duel spirits, and immediately, predictably, everything Johan said slipped out of Manjoume’s head. He could see the seams holding Judai together almost split as his downside eyes lifted and took in Johan’s empty seat.

The seconds dragged and dragged, and Manjoume, words unsaid like a ball in his throat, choking him, watched the person next to him who now seemed like a stranger.

Somehow, they made it to the lab, Johan swinging an arm over Judai’s shoulders while he asked Manjoume inane, pointless things about his Pro League career, a topic that he seemed to only know less about, never more. More bodies than usual were packed into the clean, white room, and Manjoume threw his coat at his designated chair, the middle one of the three.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said as Dr. Krenshaw dragged over a wired console, her assistants preparing the electrodes. He ripped his shirt over his head, let it hit the floor, and then yanked his boots off. Surprisingly, he had gotten used to being half-naked in a room full of attentive scientists, and he laid back without a single word, quick hands already applying the adhesive to his chest.

It was entirely accidental, how his eyes drifted over to Judai.

After he dragged his white t-shirt over his head, Judai kept his head bowed, adverted from those who hurried around him. Two parallel scars ran down his shoulder blades, their borders a raw purple-red as if they had never fully healed, never closed, and Manjoume, gritting his teeth, saw how they split a network of older scars, those off-white ridges that coiled against Judai’s skin, faded little by little into his skin. Short, dark hairs parted over the nape of his neck, and, breathing in, Judai leaned back as the assistants applied the leads to his chest, it rising and falling fast, _too_ fast for something as simple as this.

\---

_… which is a sad fate for any person._

\---

“Don’t pull at those,” Manjoume heard himself say as Judai’s hands clenched, his nails short and jagged, bitten down. They had probably bled earlier that day. “They’ll just redo the leads again, and, trust me, that adhesive can pull your chest hair out.” He snorted. “Bunch of sadists.”

Judai said nothing, and Manjoume continued.

“Look, just remember why we’re here. We’re going to save Bell, and then we’re going to sort out the mess that’s in your head. Count on it.”

A flicker of something, and then Judai finally looked at him. “Manjoume, I-”

“Seriously, it has to be worse than the Reject Well in there.”

A smile lit Judai’s face, worn but somehow familiar again. Years ago, they had passed through the thick forest around Duel Academia together, breathing in the same sharp smell of cedar and tripping over the same curved roots, and found that cursed place, its damp, musty floor strewn with abandoned cards, each one creased and torn. There, he found Ojama Green and Black, and when they had pleaded for his help, the space around them had erupted in a surge of colour and sound, angel wings and scales overlapping as the spirits showed themselves and cried out in unison.

“I remember,” Judai began, impossible to look away from, long bangs falling away from his bright eyes. “I guess that phrase fits someone like me, a reject.”

Manjoume breathed in slowly. “Maybe, but that kind of self-deprecating humour doesn’t suit you at all.”

His smile widened. “Oh, it doesn’t? I’m really not up to your standards, am I?”

“The only person here who’s earned the right to insult you is _me_ , you reject,” Manjoume snapped, and a few of the assistants raised their eyebrows at him, as if that was something strange to say. It probably was, but he still continued. Judai’s dimples showed through when he laughed. “If you got a problem with that, then we can solve it with a duel. Until that happens, I don’t want to hear anything like that from you again.”

“Alright, alright…”

“Good.”

Shaking his head, Judai adjusted his position, one gloved assistant attaching an electrode to his outer wrist. The dangling wire draped over his chest for a moment. The freckles there were small, thin, and Manjoume, wary of whatever the fuck _that_ emotion was, the one that made his heart race, snapped his eyes up. Somehow, that made it worse.

Stupid Judai.

“-although you make it pretty obvious.”

“What?!” he blurted out, and, startled, a different assistant dripped cold adhesive on his foot, which was fine. Annoying, but fine. _Less_ fine was whatever Judai had just said.

“You should really get more sleep,” Judai observed, his visible dark circles making him, in Manjoume’s humble opinion, a massive hypocrite. “Anyways, you got me thinking about the Reject Well again. That was before your duel with your older brother, one to decide the fate of our school.”

“Right…”

“Even back then, it was pretty obvious how much you loved those little spirits, the low-attack guys.” When Manjoume snorted, Judai added, “I mean, I’m sure everyone knows that you keep your Ojamas in your main deck. It’s the one in your belt holster, right?”

“Obviously. I only need one deck,” Manjoume answered, and immediately Judai’s eyes met his, their glint brighter than before.

“Ah, that’s not true. You have another one in the drawer by your-”

The console next to his chair almost hit the floor when Manjoume snapped up to his full height, a few quick hands immediately pressing the leads back in place. “Hey…. Y-You sneaky, little-”

“Hey, I didn’t mean to find it! You were on your computer or something, and suddenly Catnipped Kitty was telling me about it, which made Marron show up, and then Petite Angel, and then… Well, you get the idea, right?” Laughing, Judai added, “They really fill up a room, don’t they?”

On the receiving end of more than a few strange looks, Manjoume took a moment to compose himself, Ruby Carbuncle and Winged Kuriboh circling overheard. “Weaklings tend to stick together, so, yes, there’s a lot of them, the demanding little creatures… But at least _I_ keep them out of my head, unlike some people I know!”

“That’s not my point.”

“Then _what_ is?!”

Judai did not look away. A sliver of green caught in his right eye. “Manjoume, you kept them safe for all of these years. I knew that, and yet I couldn’t tell you about my….” A slight flinch, the green fading. “You would have understood at that moment. You…would have understood more than anyone else.” He would have. He _did_ , and Judai, fragile at his core, fragile because of the things that had never healed, gave him an honest smile. “Manjoume, I’m so sorry.”

\---

From there, the motions of the laboratory took over, more and more displays flashing on as the technicians took their places, the far wall a grid of different readings including that of his heart, a line that rose and fell. The still figures in the corner were emergency personnel, fluorescent symbols lining their uniforms and medical kits held by their sides, and Manjoume, slowing his breathing, counted the IV stands behind them, one for each duelist. And, all things considered, he couldn’t think of a better place to fall into a duel-monsters-related coma than right here on the 14th floor of Industrial Illusions’s West Research Center, not that anything like that _would_ happen on this day. Even KaibaCorp had managed to go a few years without any of its employees being admitted to Domino Hospital’s coma ward, which _had_ to be some kind of record.

But, if it did, this would be the place, and, as if she could read his thoughts, Dr. Krenshaw squeezed his arm. “Deep breaths. Try to relax,” she whispered before the slight pressure lifted, and Manjoume closed his eyes. A low static whirled in his ears, mechanical oscillations crossed with slight whispers from both humans and spirits, the words blurring together. If he focused, a low, rhythmic breathing reached him, and he matched his inhalations to those of that other person.

The practice had made it easy to reach ahead and let the Ojama’s grubby little fingertips contact his own, like they were leading him through the hallway of a dark house, and, as the door approached, he reached out for the others.

They went through, and he came to on his feet, the sunlight piercing. As always, his favourite black coat was wrapped around him, complete with the stretched-out turtleneck that always seemed to find its way into his luggage and the pair of dark-grey jeans that he wore specifically to annoy Sho – apparently they were, to use a direct quote, “out of style,” as if _Sho_ of all people knew what style was.

After straightening his collar, Manjoume glanced over his shoulder, and two grins met his own.

“Ready to save the day?” Judai asked, and, without breaking his stride, he threw his arms around the other duelists, dragging them with him as he followed the babbling Ojamas. Johan immediately nodded, and Manjoume added a level, “Let’s finish this.” The stark red of Judai’s weathered jacket was like that of his Slifer uniform, and, for a moment that lasted only seconds, only until his next blink, time seemed to fold back on itself.

A familiar person.

A familiar sensation.

And, impossibly, the sunlight warmed him then.

\---


	7. The One

\---

“It’s better than a laundry line, isn’t it?” Johan asked, and Manjoume, sighing as he took in the coloured streamers hanging from his statue and extending up to the roofs, had to admit that, yes, Johan was right.

At least it wasn’t more underwear.

To welcome their new resident, the Ojamas had thrown a party complete with music and dancing, each offensive to Manjoume’s ears and eyes, respectively. The winged Ojama, Ojama Teal, scattered flower petals from a straw basket, although something had clearly gone wrong with the gathering process, as several sticks fell through Manjoume and clattered onto the ground. In typical Ojama fashion, everything was slightly _off_ , the drinks table at such an angle that the cups kept sliding down it.

At its center, the village was a cluster of bright, competing colours, like the saturation for the world had been turned up too high, the result dizzying, chaotic, and Judai stepped through it all with a perfect smile.

“That’s a nice look for you, Manjoume,” he yelled, pointing at the flower wreath that had been plunked on the statue’s head. Half of it had already slid down over his nose, although, realistically speaking, the poor placement wasn’t the only issue. Instead of a bow to top it off, the Ojamas had knotted a large pair of red briefs.

“I’m considering a demolition project,” Manjoume replied, and Judai rolled his eyes. Behind them, Johan had been roped into judging the dance competition, and he seemed remarkably cheerful for someone being subjected to what was, in Manjoume’s opinion, a form of optical torture. “So, how’s Bell doing? Can we get started yet?”

“She’s a bit overwhelmed, actually.” The pause there indicated that Judai had an ongoing dialogue with her, and Manjoume, signalling to Johan, led the three of them up one of the stone staircases bracketing the village center. As they rounded a corner, an unfamiliar shape caught his eye.

“What the…”

He stepped under the shadow of a new house, its roof a domed mushroom like the others. A rectangular storehouse should have been there, and those shelves had been lined with cracked pots and spare wood.

A short balcony jutted out, the wood trim covered with knotted ribbons. And it was small, much smaller than the other houses, and the reason why was obvious to him now, his fingers running over the nameplate by the door. Inside, a welcome banner hung over a miniature fireplace, and a few crooked logs served as furniture, some with their mushrooms still attached. Knowing how coordinated the Ojamas were, the simple quilt thrown over the middle log must have taken a very long time to complete, even with the help of the entire village. A valuable object.

A simple gesture.

“Uh, Manjoume? What’s up?”

“Just come here, slacker…”

Taking a step back, he let Judai fill the low doorway, his fingers taking up the same position that Manjoume’s had. And yet, Judai’s stayed there for much longer, his expression flickering with the conversation in his head and eventually settling into a soft, low smile. “Yeah, I think so,” he mumbled, and, after a short pause, he chuckled and added a cheerful, “Ahh, we’ll see about that, won’t we?” Another pause. “No, no. You have to tell them that yourself, okay?”

“Looks nice and cozy in there,” Johan said, “and- Woah! A fireplace?! I’d love one of those for my apartment…”

“Unfortunately, it’s the result of Ojama engineering, which means that under no circumstances should it ever be turned on. Well, unless you like having your _house_ well-done.”

“You’ve got a point there, Manjoume,” Johan admitted, and whatever Judai had been about to say was interrupted by the shrill call of Ojama Yellow.

“Ohhhh, Mr. Andersen! It’s time for the pairs competition! Yoo-hoo!!”

Once Ojama Yellow – splattering his teal suit with massive tears when he found them at the “top secret Ojama surprise” location – had calmed down, Johan convinced him to delay the competition so that they could start the main event instead: the summoning of Rainbow Dragon in the heart of Ojama Village followed by the summoning of Bell, their newest resident, a delicate spirit.

“We’ll stay here,” Manjoume said, jerking his head at Judai. “Ojamas aren’t exactly known for their manners, and the last thing we need is these guys swarming Bell.”

Johan considered it. “Well… I guess that’s fine. But, Judai, hurry to Rainbow Dragon right after, okay? The more time you spend here, the worse the dimensional cracks will be.”

“Yeah, sounds good!”

Johan took off with Ojama Yellow at his heels, and, standing next to Judai, Manjoume watched the village center swell with bright Ojamas, their cheers already at a low roar. With the ease of an intangible spirit, Johan ran through the crowd and leapt at the statue, grappled its arm and lifted himself onto it. Immediately, with the magnetic charm that came with confidence, Johan addressed the crowd, and Manjoume stiffened at the shimmered flash of a card in his hand, the flickering light like the signal from a mirror.

“It’s time.”

With a slow nod, Judai closed his eyes. Sunlight filtered through his image, scattering bright colours on his sharp cheekbones and trailing down to the curved line of his jaw. Greens, blues, yellows, and oranges pushed up through his skin, colours of the chaotic background behind them. And, as Johan held the card up, the resounding cheers bright, brittle lines of pure white broke apart and split into a massive starburst, its edges splitting further and further until the rainbows they contained showed like taut threads.

And yet, somehow, Manjoume kept his back to it, to the piercing wail of Rainbow Dragon as the light intensified, its remnants streaking across the sky, now a blend of all colours. With careful, gentle hands, Judai coaxed one paw out of the hand-drawn card, every blue toe matched with a bright pink pad. It waved slowly, as if testing the air around it, the reality around it, and Judai’s solid hand became dashed with prismatic light.

Bell’s first paw was followed by a second one, and Judai’s smile changed, brightened in an impossible way. “You’re doing great,” he whispered, more of Bell’s short, blue fur following. With his empty hand, he tapped one of her toes. “Feel that? You’re almost there!”

Next was a sharp transition from fur to shell, the hard body that was her namesake slowly rising from the crinkled paper. Thousands of scars marred it with some deep enough to form cracks, their dark lines like thousands of crossing veins, of tangled threads. The wind of Ojama Country now pulled Judai’s jacket open, and his low, simple words of encouragement fell like a mantra, one that kept Manjoume in place, his focus rigid.

As Bell rose, more scars followed.

Like a mask, the shell hid most of her face, two cat-like eyes with split pupils showing through two purposeful cracks, and when they landed on Judai, they beaded with clear tears. They fell onto the card, a substitute drawn on lined paper, and left wet marks behind. Her striped tail followed, and then she jumped at Judai, squirming and chirping while he held her close, his sobs continuing with her own. Every one made him shake, his hold on her desperate, his tears sliding down her shell.

Manjoume knew what he felt for Judai. He had known for years, as if the warmth in his chest could be called anything else. And, sure, it had been hard to ignore, but it was even harder to accept.

The prism of light overhead folded into a bridge.

“Of course it had to be you. It…could only be you.”

A rustle of clothing, and then Judai was at his side. “Manjoume?”

Cradled in his arms was Bell, scarred but bright-eyed. The impact of one blow had shattered part of her shell, and its raw edges pulsed with every breath that she took, pink tissue meshed with the hard rock. Even if Manjoume held out his hands to her, she would just fall through, and that, _that_ had to be the pain that Judai had lived with for years.

In the reddening light, his smile was beautiful.

“It’s…nothing,” Manjoume said, glancing away from it. He breathed in. “You’re supposed to be over there. Just…hurry up.” There was an immediate pause, and he added a mumbled, “I _guess_ I can hang around here for a bit and make sure that your rock gets settled…”

Judai nodded and then looked down at Bell, her eyes immediately finding his. “Look, I know he can be a little grumpy-”

“Judai…”

“-and _sometimes_ he yells, but he’s a good guy. Plus, he’s a really, really strong duelist. Stick with him, okay?”

Bell cooed, and, every motion controlled and careful, Judai lowered her onto the ground, her two pawed feet wiggling. At first, the balance was off, Bell pitching backwards, but he helped her stand.

There were, of course, more tears before Judai left that spot in front of Bell’s house, and Manjoume couldn’t say anything when Judai finally stood up, wiped his face with his coat, and then walked away. Bell cooed and bobbed in place, and it seemed safe away to look away, just for a second, at Judai’s back.

And then Judai stopped. Rainbow Dragon’s unfurled wings covered the village.

“Hey, let’s duel when you get back. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

Too long, and Manjoume had only one answer to give.

“Idiot, you don’t have to say that. What else is a rival good for?!”

That was all he needed to say for Judai to smile again, and it felt like something tangible, like light warming his skin.

\---

Bell communicated by squeaking, purring, jumping, wobbling side-to-side like a makeshift metronome, and, when agitated, dropping to the ground and staying completely still, which had Manjoume snapping orders at the frazzled Ojamas in response. Needless to say, Ojama Red’s decision to dress up as a demon for a, direct quote, “Welcoming party thing, yah know. My armor’s cool, right?!” had not been well-received, and Manjoume had then gathered the entire village for a short lesson, Ojama Blue writing out the new “Rules for Making Bell Not-Miserable” that he dictated. Because Ojamas could sense danger better than other spirits, to the point of becoming hysterical at the very _suggestion_ of danger, throwing Yubel’s name into a few of the rules seemed to have a ‘motivational’ effect.

While Manjoume could barely sense Yubel – their image like that of a fish darting through a dark stream, easily confused with other shadows – the Ojamas seemed hyper-aware of their presence, in addition to that of the Supreme King himself.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Ojama Green began, patting Bell like a cat, “that Judai guy can still come hang out with us, but I wouldn’t, like, co-sign an apartment lease with him. Too much responsibility, yah know?”

Bell seemed to like the attention, her low purr following each rhythmic _clunk_ of a hand against her hard shell.

“‘Apartment lease’? You guys watch too much television,” Manjoume concluded, and Ojama Green and Ojama Black, crouched around Bell, launched into a discussion of some late-night courtroom drama. As background noise, it was fine, provided that he ignored their complete misunderstanding of every legal term and penchant for confusing the actual show with its commercials.

It let the time pass a little faster.

Streaked with orange, the evening sky meant that the festivities would soon die down, and Bell would be led back to her house by her current caretaker, Ojama Blue. Given her chirps, hops, and purrs as the other Ojamas approached, Yellow still absent, she seemed to have taken to them, which _was_ a point against her personal taste in companions but, still, it was also very convenient.

He kept his hands in his pockets. Earlier, he had tried to pat her shell, and when his fingers had slipped through the hard grey instead, he had felt something horrible inside, something empty that had taken his next breath. Now, Bell, wrapped in a custom-made scarf with orange polka dots, bobbed up and down on her paws with the Ojamas off-handed jokes, and he had to focus to see the crowning mass of scar tissue, the web of stone grey beaded with black scabs.

Yellow arrived with his usual grace and poise, burping and then tripping over a rock. Had he been corporeal, Manjoume would have throttled him on the spot. His fist passing through Ojama Yellow’s head did, however, have a comparable effect.

“Wah!! B-Boss?!”

“Five minutes. I gave you _five_ minutes, and you took, what, an _hour_?!”

“Oh! Uhh…”

Manjoume shoved his head into his hands. “No, it’s my fault. Why did I expect _competence_ from an Ojama, of all things?” He sighed. “I’m switching decks when I get back, I swear. Power Decks are back in fashion now.”

“B-B-Boss!!”

“No!”

“B-But we’re your ace cards!”

He waved them off. “Enough of that. Yellow, did you get what I asked for?”

Ojama Yellow blinked extremely slowly, snot trailing down his chin. “Did I….? Uhh…”

Make that _definitely_ switching to a Power Deck.

“Did Judai and Johan make it back or not?”

Ojama Yellow shrugged. “Uh, yeah. Obviously. Oh, and Dr. Cashew-”

“Krenshaw.”

“-said that you’re not supposed to drink coffee and stuff like that the day of a test, because it messes up the ratings from the…. Electro… Cardio…. Thing,” Ojama Yellow concluded, nodding to himself.

And Manjoume did leave soon after that. He watched Bell shuffle into her new home, walk in a big circle, and then settle inside the fireplace. He stopped the Ojamas from taking her out of it, since it was, without any wood in it, just a hole in the wall. Balled up in her scarf and quilt, only her tail was visible. Their patterns shifted with every deep breath.

“Hey, you.” Ojama Blue flinched at the sound of Manjoume’s voice. “Stay in the room for now, but don’t bother her, understand?

“O-Okay, Manjoume-san,” Blue replied, saluting.

“Don’t mess this up,” he said as he turned on his heel and closed his eyes for a moment. A raw ache. Somewhere between his ribs. A hand passing through stone-

In the doorway, he paused, fingers sliding over the nameplate.

For Judai, _this_ feeling had been a constant.

\---

Returning was effortless, like finding his phone in the morning or sorting through his favoured deck, each card already imprinted in his mind, always somewhere in his thoughts. To make her point, Dr. Krenshaw passed him a bottle of mineral water.

“Where are-”

“Mr. Andersen and his guest went out for a late lunch,” she said as her assistants removed the electrodes, and Manjoume, draining the bottle, noted the two empty chairs. The lab itself was back to its normal state, just Dr. Krenshaw and her four assistants flitting about, their occasional dialogue low and fast. “Your stamina really has improved,” she added, the ever-present lines between her eyebrows softening. “It’s as if you just went for a short jog, rather than crossing the divide between our worlds.”

“What can I say? I’m a natural.”

When she laughed, it took him awhile to process it. In her office, he had seen photos of her at weddings, graduations, conferences, and commendations, in each never going past “stoic”.

“Ah, I can’t deny that…” She laughed again, twirling a pen. “Still, your recent progress is something of an anomaly, like a stroke of genius that falls and carves the path towards a new theorem or new formula that changes our understanding of the world itself.” The motion stopped, and confusion must have shown on his face, Dr. Krenshaw giving him a tilted smile. “Of course, _luck_ is an underappreciated part of genius. It’s to be born at the right time, with the right circumstances. It’s to have one’s life unfold entirely, unimpeded by the world at large. It’s to be supported by the right people.”

“Uhh…”

Not-sleeping for several days, taking in more caffeine than could be advisable for any person, and then traveling to another dimension had _not_ left Manjoume at the top of his game, Dr. Krenshaw’s strange, hurried words passing right through him. Her gaze turned sympathetic, and, her assistants pulling away, she offered him a hand up, which he took.

“Some chain of circumstances has led you to this place, Manjoume. And, more so,” she added, taking a step back, “it has kept you here long enough for him to show up.”

He stiffened.

“By offering Yuki Judai a position here, Mr. Pegasus has indeed demonstrated a valuable foresight, as this person would be an asset for continuing our research and, ultimately, for securing the safety of our two worlds. However…”

Manjoume waited for her to continue, the concentration visible. The wall of computers filled the room with a persistent, low hum.

“Today, you were able to cross into the other dimension with perfect ease, none of our warning systems registering any disturbances. What’s more, you were able to do this while transporting two others with you. Two months ago… No, even two weeks ago, these results would have been unthinkable.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“My point,” she stated, raising an eyebrow at him, “is that while Mr. Pegasus’s invitation is the correct one to make, his focus is ultimately on the wrong person.”

Turning away, he yanked his shirt over his head and then tucked it into his jeans. His jacket went on next, then his boots.

“So, what exactly are you asking me to do?” he asked, aware that there was something wrong with his voice. Fuck, he thought. He drew his laces tighter. “Let’s assume what you’re saying is true, meaning that Judai isn’t the worst rival ever and is still capable of motivating me in some way. Fine. Sure. Whatever, but _none_ of that means he’ll take the job. That guy makes his own decisions.”

He walked out into the hallway, signalled for an elevator, and then pivoted on his heel. When he entered the lab again, Dr. Krenshaw glanced up from her terminal.

“Look, I…” Too awkward. Start over. “I apologize for…whatever just happened. I need to clear my head, and I won’t come in again until I do that.”

“Drink less coffee.”

“Yeah, less coffee,” he confirmed, and Dr. Krenshaw smiled back at him.

“And sleep more.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“Although, I’m really the one who should apologize. I let my curiosity get the better of me.” She threw an elbow on the terminal, her stark lab coat falling over its keyboard. “No matter what happens, our research will continue, Manjoume. The last thing I want is to burden you with a decision that, as you indicated, isn’t really yours to make.”

He scoffed. “‘Burden’? Did you forget who you’re talking to?”

“Perhaps,” she replied, chuckling. And, feeling like _less_ of a heel than before, Manjoume strode back out of the room, a sudden fatigue taking him to one of Pegasus’s corporate cars and demanding that he return to his apartment, the driver familiar with the course. And, like that, crumpled in the backseat, two fingers working out the tension between his eyes, the truth was a very near and tempting thing.

The sprawling arenas and studios of the North American Pro League banded the distant skyline, their visual impact lessened and lessened and ground down after years of exposure, of navigating the dingy halls and back rooms that circled the million-dollar fixtures, the arrays of lights and cameras. From this distance, the buildings’ slopes and contours were indistinguishable, negligible. The 8-figure statue of a Blue Eyes White Dragon that Kaiba Corp had commissioned for its outreach center could, from this distance, have been part of a cloud, a trick of the light. From here, on the rim of the valley containing the mass of the city, the opposite side a cut of ocean blue, everything seemed small, so small.

_What am I doing_ , he thought, the cityscape a textured mass, a grey-blue. _What the_ fuck _I am about to do?_

Even though he had the apartment for about nine months now, he had never really _thought_ about it. For those past months, it had mostly been somewhere to pass out between schedules. But, if what Misako said was true, those schedules would be easier to manage in the future, leaving him with time, time to-

“No way,” Manjoume muttered to himself, the elevator hitting his floor. Although he walked out of it with the genuine intention of getting into bed, turning off his phone, and sleeping for the next twelve hours, the universe, by all accounts, really had it out for him.

When he opened his apartment door, Catnipped Kitty leapt through it and pawed at his feet with a loud meep, her bell clattering with the next swat, and Manjoume’s headache returned with a vengeance. While he _liked_ to pretend that he couldn’t understand the weak spirits, their endless babble so shallow, so _stupid_ that it was hazardous to his IQ, the truth was that he usually just tuned them out.

Not now.

_“Meow, meow, meow-”_

“Ha, so he really came…”

_“Meow! Meow, meow, meow!”_

“Seriously? _You’re_ telling _me_ what to do?”

_“Meow!!”_

“From now on, I’m using your card as a coaster.”

The sudden yowling made the other spirits appear, their hurried voices forming a patchwork story of how Judai had visited them earlier, kneeled down in the hallway outside and listened to them talk, an hour passing like that. “He’s really sweet but also kind of sad,” Petit Angel observed, bobbing overheard, and Manjoume pushed his bangs away from his face, his hand shaking. The cacophony ground into him.

“Manjoume-san! You should find him!”

“Yeah, yeah! Go after him!”

“Manjoume Thunder!”

“Go, go!”

“Coasters. All of you are becoming coasters,” he muttered as he yanked open a kitchen drawer, one full of random junk like elastic bands, business cards, and, buried in the back corner, the thing he suddenly wanted. He shoved it in his pocket, fingers curling around the jagged shape.

A moment passed, the spirits crowding the room and buzzing with anticipation, growls and squeaks competing with electric chimes, with human-like voices that rose and fell. “He was in the stairwell, Manjoume-san,” Dreamsprite, a blue nymph with orange wings, whispered in his ear. Sprawled across the couch, Blade Rabbit yawned and added, “Check the roof, Boss. Winged Kuriboh’s been up there for a while, that noisy little ball...”

Years ago, Judai, then a Slifer Red, would spend hours at the shoreline, his knees pulled up against his chest and his stare set on the shifting water, oblivious to anyone who watched him, to the chill that set in at night. That part of Judai would never change.

From the roof, the ocean could be seen, stretching beyond the city it bordered and pushing up into the sky. And Manjoume, his decision made, took a deep breath, the shard-like key digging into his palm.

\---

The pale blue sky deepened in the distance, settling into an almost grey, and the thin clouds that slashed it moved with the strong wind, now pulling at his coat, ripping his collar open. Despite housing luxury apartments, the building did not have a penthouse, and the flat grey of the roof, bracketed with thin guardrails, had disappointed him at first. Although, like Judai, he had come here before and sat at the far corner, where waves could be heard slamming into the distant shore.

Above, Winged Kuriboh drifted with the wind.

Below, there was Judai, his head in his hands.

Manjoume crossed the distance between them, his hands deep in his pockets. He stared at Judai’s back, at the broken line of his shoulders. If he focused, he could hear a faint echo of the static inside Judai’s head, spirits talking over each other, unheard words ramming into one another and breaking apart.

Parallel scars banded the back of Judai’s neck.

“Hey, let’s move our duel to tomorrow,” Judai said, and Manjoume waited for him to continue, waves crashing. “Today, I can’t seem to…” The static rose, those shoulders dropping even further. “Well, maybe you already understand.”

“My flight leaves at 8 a.m. I’ll be back in two weeks, probably.”

“Oh. That’s…too bad.”

“That’s the life of a celebrity,” he corrected. “Some of us have reputations to maintain.”

“Yeah, of course.” The seams of Judai’s bomber jacket were worn, close to splitting at the shoulders, and each patch, bordered with stark black thread, probably had a story behind it, same for the knots in the leather band around his right wrist, same for the red marks crossing his knuckles.

“If you need me to stay, I’ll-”

“No, it's okay. I've got it under control, and…” The waves crashed again, and the wind rose higher. “I won't let it get that bad again.”

“Just don't lose your phone this time.”

Folding his coat under him, Manjoume sat down at Judai’s right. His palm passed over the key, and it steadied him. It broke the strange, lulling monotone of the static.

“Where’d Johan go?”

“He has a conference in a few days. I told him to prepare for that,” Judai said.

“I see.” And although his next words came out too fast, too harsh, Judai listened with the same faraway expression, unmoving. “Just remember what we did today. We saved Bell, and, sure, the Ojamas will probably be a bad influence on her in some way, but she’s not… _breaking_ apart inside your head. I’ll check on her for you, make sure she doesn’t somehow destroy the village, as if _that_ wouldn’t be an improvement.” His fingers rounded the key, and he continued. “But, Judai, think of the implications here, not just for the sake of those spirits.”

A shadow flickered across the faint orange-green of Judai’s irises. “I get it, trust me.”

And Manjoume did not back down, even when those colours thickened and bled into the familiar, _human_ brown of Judai’s eyes. “ _Do_ you? Then prove it. Tell me what your next move is, if even you’ve even _thought_ that far ahead.”

And he did not flinch at the flash of Yubel’s fanged teeth or the sudden surge of their scaled arm up from Judai’s own, the claws finishing it already extended. All sharp angles and stark, contrasting colours, Yubel appeared as something out of a nightmare, because they _had_ been part of his nightmares, stalking the edges of his dark cell in the other dimension, flitting in and out of sight with cruel, lasting words. Wings burst out of Judai’s back, translucent, filled with the sky, but taking in all the light, returning none.

Just as quickly as it happened, Yubel disappeared.

Then, Judai’s clear eyes met his own, and the contact twisted a familiar part of his chest, warm like the summer days spent duelling in makeshift arenas and over meaningless things, bets that neither of them would remember now. They had memories from before Darkness, before the Other Dimension, and, now, before _this_ , their drift into the spirit world together.

Suddenly, Judai smiled.

“Well, that settles it! I’ve made my decision. I’m going to stay here for awhile, helping the little guys I’ve picked up.” His smile widened, and Manjoume had to glance away. He stared at the railing, the ocean beyond it twisting. “I didn’t say anything earlier, but Pegasus actually offered me a job. Well, a contract position, which is _basically_ a job. Anyways,” Judai continued with a bright laugh, “don’t worry about the duel, Manjoume, because we’ll have lots of time for that in the future.”

“Right…”

He knew Judai was pouting. He didn’t have to turn his head for _that_.

“Ah, that’s it? Come on, aren’t you a _little_ excited?”

“Judai…”

“Hm? What’s up?”

The wind ran through Judai’s bangs, scattering them. The eyes on his own were bright, their shadows contained.

His next action was simple, just a flick of his right hand to remove something from his coat and hold it out to Judai, but the implication was anything but that. The _feeling_ was anything but that, and he watched confusion pass over Judai’s face with a pounding heart, his composure a fraying thread.

“Manjoume, is this…?”

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he snapped before throwing his spare key the remaining distance, Judai catching it with a yelp. “Once I’m back, you’re taking over half of the rent. Oh, and don’t even _think_ about touching my computer, mixing _any_ of my laundry with yours, entering my room when I’m not there, entering my room when I _am_ there, taking out the-”

“Woah, slow down! I need a pen for this!”

“The point is,” Manjoume sneered, “that I’m _not_ doing you a favour.”

“I…was just thinking that, actually.”

He scoffed. “Get used to being ordered around, slacker.”

Judai burst into laughter, and Manjoume raised one thin eyebrow at him.

“I-It’s nothing, r-really!”

“Spit it out.”

“You’re not going to like it,” Judai said, his perfect white teeth flashing.

And Manjoume, who recognized a challenge when he heard one, crossed his arms and answered, “Oh? Try me.”

“Well, I’ve been in your apartment before, and I just realized that out of the two of us, the clean one is _actually_ me.” Ignoring Manjoume’s sudden scowl, Judai finished with a cheery, “That’s quite the ego boost, now that I think about it.”

“Enjoy that feeling while it lasts,” Manjoume growled, a familiar glint entering Judai’s eyes. “If you act too egotistical, Judai, then I’ll have to crush you in a duel. That would fix the problem, perhaps even permanently.”

“Wait, wait. Manjoume Thunder is lecturing _me_ on being egotistical?”

“There’s no one better suited for the job, is there?”

Judai shook his head, smile still bright. “Ah, that’s true. You _are_ a very good example of an egotistical person, but that’s not what you meant, was it?”

Manjoume snorted. “Obviously.”

A sudden burst of wind threw his bangs into his eyes, and when he brushed them away, Judai had laid down on his back, hands behind his head. Manjoume stayed as he was, cross-legged, the edges of his well-worn boots poking through the gaps between the railing. Under the screeches and rumbles of the cars below, the waves continued to rasp against the shore, and if he closed his eyes for a moment, then that sound only seemed to grow louder, push into his head.

He could barely hear the static.

\---


	8. Collide, Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments! :D  
> Should be some more fluff in the future...

\---

When he woke up, the stars were out and Judai was deep in conversation with Ojama Green, on the defensive judging by the crease above the cyclops’s eye and the apologetic grin on Judai’s face. Manjoume’s coat fell from his shoulders as he sat up, Judai’s in a ball below where his head had been, and the implications there were something he was _not_ going to think about, not unless Judai teased him about it first.

Because of Yellow’s earlier incompetence, Green had been tasked with giving him reports on Bell’s condition, and, considering that Judai hadn’t already shaken him awake, things must have been fine, the little spirit most likely still asleep in the fireplace.

Sleep. Now that was a good idea.

Staggering to his full height, he threw his coat over one shoulder and made for the stairwell, Judai sprinting after him and Green popping out of sight with a loud laugh.

“You know, I think the Ojamas are _still_ mad at me for the whole Society of Light thing… Seriously, he just called me a ‘thief!’”

“Being on your side of the field would be a humiliating experience. Try to be sympathetic.”

“What?!” Judai squawked, and Manjoume walked faster, taking the stairs two at a time. “Hey, but _I_ won that duel!”

“I had a card to destroy, unless you forgot about that,” Manjoume said, shrugging. “I think we can call it a draw, under those circumstances.”

“You’re joking…”

He arched an eyebrow.

Judai sighed and then continued in the same light tone, making the fact that he just pulled out Manjoume’s spare key and flicked the lock open all the more surprising, all the stranger.

“Although, you’re really not the kind of guy who’s satisfied with a draw, are you?”

“Uhh… Yeah,” he said, watching Judai pocket the key, throw his coat on the couch, and then wander into the kitchen. “Besides that, White Knight Lord was my monster in the first place, meaning that you barely did any work during that duel. You should be ashamed to even think of it as a victory,” he finished, rambling, and at Judai’s strange look, he turned and shut the door.

For five years- Wait, no. Was it four? For _many_ years, Judai had been a ghost, the kind of person whose stories usually reached him as third- or fourth-hand accounts, the details blurred. But now Judai was elbow-deep in a cupboard, pushing boxes of instant curry roux out of the way.

Judai lived here now.

Eventually, he stretched out on the couch with a cup of ramen and turned on Duel Network’s latest compilation special. The man of the hour, Edo Phoenix, made by far the most appearances, always in a peacock-blue suit, slate grey tie, and black dress shirt with gold cufflinks.

Judai had taken the chair and made his own cup ramen after some standard complaining (“It’s fine but do you _only_ buy junk food, Manjoume?” “Shut it…” “Man, you’re really missing out.”). Unlike Manjoume – who alternated his attention between his phone, Misako all but confirming the cancellation of his European schedules, and his spicy ramen broth – Judai was completely absorbed in the duels flashing across the screen, even dropping his cup when Edo’s life points dipped below 300 and making a lovely stain on the white rug.

Yeah, _Judai_ was the neat one.

“I would’ve got him lower than that,” Manjoume said, Judai already on his knees and dabbing at the stain.

“Hey, can you pause it?”

“Uh. Yeah?”

Judai gave him a look. “ _Will_ you pause it?”

“Get me the remote.”

“It’s right there!”

“Your point being…?”

Because Judai threw it at his head, Manjoume decided not to pause it after all, meaning that they missed the next trap card, that of Edo’s upstart opponent, and Judai had to piece together its effect based on the field and the crowd’s reaction. At least the carpet was clean. For now.

“Solemn Judgement?”

“Took you long enough…”

The duel continued, Edo, in true pro-duelist style, drawing out his finishing moves, each accompanied by just long enough of a pause for the crowd to become anxious: gaping, cheering, wailing. At one point Manjoume fell asleep, and when he woke up Judai was still watching the program, fingers tapping on the armrests, his attention absolute. He shone in the dark, Yubel a scattering outline over him, their solid, scaled hand running over his back.

Apparently he had two roommates. Well, two plus whatever Judai still had inside his head.

The sound of his alarm jolted him awake again a few hours later, morning light spilling across the room and digging into his now-open eyes. On reflex, he staggered over to boiler, hit the ‘on’ switch, and made for his bedroom, his travel case only half-packed. The motions were familiar. He started and finished a phone call with Misako without thinking about it, his hands shoving dress shirts and slacks into a well-worn suitcase. He drank his scalding-hot tea while tapping out an email with one hand, a sponsor needing ‘feedback on their last round of promotions’ or some bullshit like that.

Before he left, he dropped a stack of sheets by Judai, who had curled up in the longue chair in front of the window, his chest rising and falling in deep, unbroken sleep. There _was_ a pull-out futon in his office, and, gulping down the remainder of his tea, Manjoume left Judai a text saying just that. Of course, Judai knew about it already, but he still seemed to end up here.

Above Judai, Yubel showed as a pale shadow, their sharp angles broken by the thin rays of light, and their stare dug into Manjoume’s back as he put the cup away.

“Good morning to you too,” he muttered, and when he glanced back, the spirit had tilted their head, their third eye stark, dark red. “What? I live here, so stop looking at me like I don’t.”

“Hn. Interesting reaction,” Yubel purred, and Manjoume almost flinched when they pushed into reality, the armored scales that banded their skin finishing with serrated edges. The light caught on their fanged teeth, showing as Yubel leered at him from over Judai, his chest bracketed by their thighs. And, sure, he wasn’t afraid of Yubel, but having a half-human half-dragon apparition in his apartment _did_ force every last bit of sleep out of his system.

“Whatever. I have a flight to catch,” he said, turning on his heel. “Just don’t break anything while I’m gone. Make Judai call me if things go weird again. Oh,” he added, one hand on the door, “and don’t eat any of the low-attack guys. It’s not worth it.”

At Yubel’s low chuckle, Judai stirred. When their palm found his forehead and brushed his bangs aside, his shoulders went slack again. And even if Manjoume hadn’t had a car waiting for him outside, he would have left anyways, something about Yubel’s tender expression, the gentle curve of their gauntlet-like hand, and the way Judai leaned into it too vivid, too stark.  

As the door shut behind him, Yubel’s low words followed him.

“Safe travels, my dear.”

\---

After thinking about it for the entirety of an eleven hour flight, two variety show filming sessions, four ranked duels, and one rigidly polite dinner with some potential sponsors, minus the few hours that he had passed out during transit, Manjoume concluded that while it was a _little_ weird how close Judai and Yubel were, it wasn’t his problem unless they, for example, conducted a demonic ritual in his kitchen or tried to drink his blood.

“Do you need to go to the hotel at all?” Misako asked, folded into the seat next to him and typing a rapid-fire message on her phone, silver rings clicking. The van, taking them to a recording for Weekly Duelist, rattled with every uneasy corner that it took, and the stylist on Manjoume’s other side racked a comb through his unruly hair. He ignored the sting.

“Let’s just get this over with,” he said while buttoning his suit jacket. Because a certain formality was required for this program, Misako had a jet-black suit fitted for him. On the thin tie, he added a pin embossed with a thunder bolt, his signature image.

Ojama Green had reported three more times, each containing nothing of interest. “It’s weird having someone smaller than us Ojamas around,” Green had observed with a solemn nod. “Makes you feel big, yah know?”

Backstage, sipping an iced coffee and trying not to doze off, he ran into none other than Marufuji Sho, his green cut-offs jeans paired with red suspenders and a tan button-down shirt, and the effect was disturbing enough that Manjoume missed his greeting entirely. The ponytail was Daitokuji-esque, enough to remind Manjoume of those three-hour alchemy lectures which, in hindsight, explained a _lot_ of what had happened at their school.

“The casting for the zombie movie is in the next studio,” Sho said, and the smug look fell off his face when Manjoume rammed one foot into the back of his chair.

“Ha. Ha.”

“Woah, you’re sour today. Well, more sour than usual,” Sho added, and he dodged Manjoume’s swipe at his head.

“You do know there’s a dress code for this thing, right?”

Sho’s smug look returned. “This is called causal chic.”

“The brief said formal.”

Sho’s smug look teetered. “So… I…”

“Just wear the blazer with it,” Manjoume said, massaging his forehead. “Also, the sleeves are a problem.”

He realized his mistake when Sho looked down at his shirt. “Really? How so?”

“The _card_ sleeves,” Manjoume spat, the vehicroids’ calls muffled but insistent. “Take them off your cards or, trust me, those guys won’t be listening to you for much longer.”

Sho took his deck out its holster, every card folded in blue-yellow plastic. “What? These? Ah, man… I just did a commercial for this company…”

“Hurry up!”

“Alright, alright! Geeze, give me a second…”

When the producer came in with a ten-minute warning, the other panelists rushed over to the mirrors with their assistants while Manjoume and Sho sat cross-legged with a pile of cards between them, the empty sleeves shoved to the side. And although touching the vehicroids felt _weird_ – their colours and shapes not fitting him at all, not matching him – taking off the plastic sleeves did shut them up, at least temporarily.

While the Ojamas shrill voices were incredibly annoying, the angry blaring of car horns and engines had _almost_ been worse.

“You always were sensitive to the spirit world. I guess that hasn’t changed at all,” Sho said as he freed Stealthroid, the spirit vibrating as it flexed its wings and spun off across the room. Manjoume’s response was cut off by the sudden rake of his assistant’s comb across his scalp, and Sho continued in a very, _very_ predictable way. “So, how’s that stuff at Industrial Illusions going? Do they have you working on any top-secret projects or-”

“Ask all you want, Sho, but you’re not getting anything out of me.”

“You’re no fun,” Sho scolded. Cycroid, the last of the cards, let out a happy squeak and chased after Stealthroid, and, as Manjoume downed the last of his iced coffee, Sho leaned closer and continued in a hushed voice. “I-Is it true that Pegasus is going to make you his successor?”

“No comment.”

“Come on, Manjoume-kun!”

“-san.”

“Seriously?!” He stood up, and Sho scrambled to follow him, his own manger swooping in to fix his lapels. “You can’t keep this a secret forever! Oh, I got it! Let’s duel after the recording, and if I win, you have to-”

“No deal,” Manjoume said, causing Sho to latch onto his arm and start whining. “Look, even _if_ I wanted to talk about it, I can’t. Other people are involved, and I can’t just ignore their responsibilities. That’s what it means to be an adult.”

Sighing, Sho let go. “I understand, it’s just-”

“Just _what_?”

“-that I really, really want to know!”

“How are we the same age?” Manjoume muttered to himself.

The appearance of the producer ended their conversation, Sho turning serious and giving him his full attention. When he dueled, Sho’s confidence always showed through, not the over-zealous kind of a weak person compensating for what they lacked, but rather the controlled, absolute kind of a champion. When he made a finishing move, that confidence was at its peak, and, having been on the receiving end of far, _far_ too many reversals, Manjoume knew it was real.

Needless to say, he was ready for their next match.

The recording went as expected, the two senior moderators managing the panelists’ discussion and steering them away from any subjects that were too controversial. The familiar set, organized in tiers of long tables with fake stone panels lining the walls and ceilings, came with the usual stale air and low, constant heat from the stage lights. But those conditions invigorated him, brought his energy higher, and with perfect ease he countered the other panelists and let the cameras focus on him, their red lights a constant.

Aside from, courtesy of Mathmatica, more math puns than he cared to remember –  Sho choking on his water at one about fractions and spitting it on the unfortunate rookie sitting next to him – it could be called a success, and his manager later assured him that his fanbase would respond well to his appearance.

“Fan club applications are up 12% for the quarter,” she relayed, clicking her white acrylic nails. “They like ‘seeing your passion on display,’ according to the latest forum poll.”

“If Moderator Takahashi-san had kept the conversation on the points system change, then they’d see even more of that ‘passion,’” he said, matching her strides as they made for the van. The sun was down, the street flooded with orange-white streetlights and the cast-off from neon signs, stark colours catching on the falling rain and banding the shallow puddles in his path. Past the sloping power lines and rigid buildings, the stars showed, as did the red-whites of passing planes. A chill settled in. Drops beaded on the edge of their umbrellas before falling to the pavement below.

Misako had stopped, her expression blank. Her slick black ponytail caught the orange lights of a passing car, as did the ever-present silver on her hands and wrists. Rain marked the shoulders of her off-green suit jacket and had splattered her white heels with mud.

“Manjoume-san, you did well today.”

His bow surprised her. “Thank you for your hard work.”

“Thank you for your hard work.”

Her bow matched his own, and when she straightened, rain dripped down her signature rings. Rain ran in cold lines down the back of his neck, and the passing cars parted that on the road, scattered it. “Get some rest tonight,” she said, twirling her umbrella and stepping away. “Tomorrow will be another day like this, and we’ll both need to give it our all.”

“Not a problem.”

Later, fresh out of the shower and wrapped in a complimentary robe, Manjoume fell back on his hotel bed and checked his phone.

No messages.

He dropped it on his chest and stared at the ceiling. One benefit of being a popular pro duelist, as opposed to hacking out a living in the amateur ranks, was _definitely_ the first-class hotels. Now, he had a top-floor, four-room suite all to himself, complete with a balcony that hung over the downtown core, still alive and pulsing with traffic at the late hour. None of the sound below reached him. An absolute silence set in.

It was different than the static that always followed Judai.

And, just like that, he was back to a familiar topic. It would be morning on the west coast

He grabbed his phone, opened a new conversation window, and typed in ‘have you burned down my place yet?’ before throwing it across the bed. He passed out when his head hit the pillow.

Judai’s reply came late the next day.

It came in as Manjoume bolted down a non-descript hallway after Misako, cheers already pushing in through the thin walls and shaking everything they contained, the last words of his fan chant repeated over and over again. The preliminaries had received a record number of attendees, people spilling out into the aisles and all chanting, all waiting, and he only had time to glance at the message in the seconds before he hit the stage, two assistants attaching his duel disk, another fitting his headset.

 

**Yuki Judai [17:36]: you make it sound like a challenge**

 

 _“It’s not,”_ would have been his answer, and another message flashed as he put his phone away. It made him grin, the angle sharp, and he gave into the sudden adrenaline coursing through his system, his fan chanting rounding again and dragging him with it.

 

**Yuki Judai [17:36]: maybe i’ll stay up for your first match. promise to entertain me?**

_“I’ll do more than that, Judai,”_ he thought, striding onto the stage and throwing his signature coat open, blood pounding inside his head. _“You’re going to wish you were here.”_

The lights were on him. The crowd was already his, and his upstart opponent, Lizarando, could only watch as he dominated the field, the cards seeming to obey his every thought, every whim. That opponent only lasted two turns, and the next one only three. He cleaved his way through the challengers, the stage lighting bearing down on him.

In the end, he was alone on the stage.

Breathing hard, he ran a hand through his hair. _This_ was the feeling that he craved, an exhaustion cut by adrenaline, diluted by the thousand-fold echo of his name. With his third opponent, he had struck out with Armed Dragon, and the final attack had sent thick clouds of smoke through the stadium, blotting out the light.

 _“You better have watched this,”_ he thought, fingers shaking.

With one last flare of his coat, he strode off stage, loud cheers following him, encouraging him. Sweat had sank into his collar. It beaded on his forehead, and he wiped at it with one of the towels offered to him, the assistants already around him and taking away the battery pack, then the headset. Misako had already made for the staff exit, and he had only seconds again.

 

**Yuki Judai [18:03]: ha…. you wont believe how late it is here…**

**Yuki Judai [18:12]: thanks for the show~**

 

 _“You might have trouble sleeping,”_ he wanted to say, and his thoughts tilted in a strange way as he hurried after Misako, his hands pulling at his too-tight tie. Yuki Judai, watching _him_.

He worked hard for the remainder of that day. At the post-duel press conference, he felt the full force and power of his persona, and he took all the attention that was given to him. He sparred with the other duelists, taunted them, and every flash of a camera widened his knife-life grin. Out for dinner with his sponsors, he answered their questions, their concerns, and repeated the talking points Misako had drilled into him, his precision perfect. Outside the restaurant, the dark rain bathed in fluorescent lights, the cold enough to cut through his coat, he signed autographs until the traffic thinned and stars dashed the black sky.

Under the intense stage lights, he had stood still, taken in the roar of the crowd, and felt the hammer-beat of his heart.

\---

Four days later, and after more fan signs, sponsorship meetings, interviews, and tv recordings with a few one-sided duels – all victories – scattered in-between each, Judai messaged him again.

When his phone vibrated, he was on his hotel bed, wrapped in a fresh bathrobe, and sorting through his deck absently, _something_ about the balance off. He could almost feel the problem. Certain cards were like knots under his fingers. They resisted being pulled out of the deck, their effects building off its core components, strengthening them.

Judai’s message was so stupid that it confused him.

 

**Yuki Judai [00:14]: i don’t like your stove :/**

Sitting cross-legged, he shuffled _Masked Dragon_ and _Armed Dragon Lvl 3_ back into his main deck, those two like pinpricks against his palm. The ‘Typing’ icon continued to spin.

 

**Yuki Judai [00:15]: a gas one is soooo much easier to use, don’t u think?**

“Is…he expecting me to answer that?” Manjoume muttered to himself. Out of _all_ the possible topics for Judai to pick from – including the duel spirits in his head, his new job at Industrial Illusions, the fact that they were, in some way, living together – he had picked the shiny black-topped induction stove in Manjoume’s apartment as his starting point.

Manjoume grabbed his phone.

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [00:15]: did you burn my apartment down??**

**Yuki Judai [00:15]: hmmmmmmm….**

 

 “Judai…”

 

**Yuki Judai [00:15]: nope!**

The messages continued. He answered each one a few seconds later, shuffling his deck over and over again, data on monster cards clicking against those thoughts on Judai’s light, causal words. Each rhythmic pass of the cards made those collisions stronger, starker.

He waited for Judai to get to the point.

 

**Yuki Judai [00:27]: guess i’ll miss that match! i have work tomorrow**

And Manjoume, connecting the scattered pieces, holding them in place, did not let him move away from it.

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [00:27]: how’s that going?**

And yet, Judai’s reply was one he did not expect.

 

**Yuki Judai [00:27]: are u up for a video call?**

**Yuki Judai [00:27]: typing takes foreverr**

 

He slowly pushed a hand through his still-wet hair. Sure, he could stand in front of a crowd of 20,000 screaming, jeering duel monsters fans and keep his head held high, even if he suffered a sudden and absolute defeat, but _this_ , a video call with his high school rival, made his fingers shake with something like weakness, with something that he was _not_ dealing with right now.

Especially not when Judai felt close like this.

If he waited too long, it would read as hesitation, and Manjoume Thunder did _not_ hesitate. He hit the call button and straightened up, his right hand dragging through his hair again. Earlier that night, he had convinced the CEO of a major electronics firm to sponsor his next tournament appearance, which _meant_ that he could _definitely_ convince Yuki Judai that whatever was bothering him wasn’t actually as apocalyptic as it seemed.

Well, probably.

When the call went through, he first noticed that Judai had propped his phone against something, and, set to horizontal, his camera captured most of the living room couch, Judai sitting cross-legged in the middle of it. The plain white t-shirt, rolled-up jeans, and wet hair told Manjoume that he had just gotten changed. A bronze pendant hung around his neck on the end of a thin chain, its surface bright in the morning light. It swayed as Judai leaned his chin against his palm, something nervous behind his smile.

“So, how’s your-”

“We’re talking about you, not me,” Manjoume stated.

“Fine, fine. Although, I’m really not that interesting of a subject…”

“You’re more interesting than my stove is,” Manjoume said, and _that_ made Judai laugh.

“Ah, is that a compliment? I’m taking it as one.”

“Judai…”

“Okay, I get it…”

The silence dragged out, Judai rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. Maybe he would try to avoid talking again, like he had about the spirits crowding his head and decaying inside it. Or, maybe, this would be a different situation, one ending in a way that didn’t lead to regrets.

He waited even though the seconds grated against him.

Eventually, Judai glanced back at the screen. More seconds passed, clipped past, and then he said, “I should start with the easy part.”

Manjoume nodded. “Right.”

“The specialists at Industrial Illusions are the people you said they would be. They’ve already come up with a plan, and tomorrow we’re going to start testing the strength of some of these guys.” He tapped his forehead. “Johan will be back for some of that, and Pegasus will be out to make some portraits too.”

“Portraits?”

“For the spirits without proper cards,” Judai explained. “Bell was too injured to try it, but it’s possible to ‘ground’ some of them in this world by giving them official cards. The card art is a part of that process, like the card names, effects, stats… Well, you get the idea, right?”

He nodded, and Judai continued in the same even, hurried voice.

“Aside from that, they’re going to rerun some of the out-of-print cards for these guys. ‘The rehabilitation process’. That’s the official name for it, by the way.”

“Bureaucracy needs names. That’s just how it is.”

Judai ignored him. “As a final option, we still have transferring the spirits back to their world. I’ve started practicing with my field spells, since it’s not fair to have the Ojamas take everyone in when it’s my fau-” His smile changed. “Anyways, it’s…a lot of information.”

“You’re doing the right thing,” Manjoume replied, staring at the image of his rival, now unmoving. He took a chance. “Look, Judai, just try to focus on the positives here. I know from experience that having a bunch of scientists digging into your head isn’t exactly _fun_ , but there _is_ a reason for it. They’re not just sadists trying to fill time.”

“I understand,” Judai said, his voice flat, bled of any emotion.

“But you still hate it.”

“‘Hate’ is…too strong of a word,” Judai admitted. “All of this, it feels strange, and I know I’m resisting more than I should be, but…”

“Don’t leave.”

Judai’s laugh was too high, the self-deprecating kind, but he did smile after it. “Ah, Manjoume… Don’t worry about that. Your apartment is the nicest place I’ve stayed in for years, so you’re not getting rid of me _that_ easily.” And he threw an arm over the back of the couch, as if to make his point. His smile looked good, too good. The short sleeves of his shirt showed off the lean, rolling muscles of his arms, and a wet sheen made his tanned skin glow, made Manjoume stare far harder than he should have.

Yuki Judai, still wet from a shower and sprawled across his plain, black couch, now looking at the camera with a playful smirk that Manjoume felt in his chest, felt like a sudden heat.

“Y-Yeah, sure,” he muttered, his throat tight. And he watched Judai raise an eyebrow, the taunting look familiar. “Shouldn’t you…be at work or something?”

“Oh, not yet. We’re waiting on a shipment of blank cards, so I’ve got the morning off.”

Manjoume, whose schedule started at five the next morning, felt his face twitch. Annoyance at Judai he could deal with. Right now, he almost appreciated it.

Almost.

“I’m surprised you’re not watching Duel Network. The Immortal Phoenix,” he said, sarcastic,” is at the Paris Invitational, and his first match should have already started.”

“Hm? You weren’t invited?”

“Why…am I talking to you again?”

“Hey, it’s just a question!”

“It’s a tournament for the top eight only. Honestly, how can you call yourself a duelist and _not_ know that?” Sighing, he leaned back, his head hitting the pillow. “I’ll make it next year, count on it.”

“I’m sure you will,” Judai replied, his smile wide, and the low tone of his voice was like-

Not thinking about it. _Not_ thinking about it.

“-didn’t notice it at first.”

“W-What?”

At Manjoume’s outburst, Judai, with another wide, indulgent smile, repeated himself. “Oh, it’s nothing important, but I have noticed how careful Edo’s managers are when talking about his dueling record.”

Bringing his phone closer to his face and snapping into his professional mindset, Manjoume asked in a measured way, “What do you mean by that?”

His respect for the world’s number one was immense, and, having spent enough time with Edo at various charity balls, silent auctions, and year-end events, he knew that Edo’s strange, subdued sarcasm became _especially_ interesting after a few drinks. He also knew that Edo was still prone to hanging around dark alleyways, throwing upper-cuts at would-be card thieves, and even infiltrating illegal dueling rings and tearing them down from the inside. And every columnist for a celebrity gossip magazine – of which there were far, _far_ too many – would have been shocked to learn that Edo cut his signature hair short not to make a fashion statement, but rather because the vicious leader of an electro-shock duel syndicate had grabbed it to get in a cheap shot.

That night, a trail of frantic duel spirits had led Manjoume from the backstage of a seedy late-hours dueling arena – _not_ his best showing as a professional duelist – to a narrow alleyway spotted with fresh blood. Edo had been folded in the gap between two dumpsters, one hand tight to his stomach and the other slack and colourless like his face. Following the mumbled instructions, Manjoume taken a slim first aid kit from Edo’s suit pocket, disinfected the wound, and made a set of stitches that his patient later described as “poor, at best”, his only previous experience being patching up his well-worn trench coat. Shards of broken glass had littered the ground beneath them. A chill had set in when Edo finally staggered to his feet, Manjoume at his side and forcing him still, insults and curses flying between them. Flecks of Edo’s blood had stained his hands and dashed the front of his worn grey suit.

They were probably friends at this point.

But they were also duelists, and Manjoume needed take a victory off him now that Edo had hit his stride.

Of course, there was another person he needed to defeat.

“Well, let’s just say that it’s true Edo hasn’t lost a Pro League match in two years.” Judai’s grin was like a challenge. It ignited him, made his smirk curl.

“Judai…”

It felt electric, and Judai leaned closer to the camera, the bronze pendant swinging. His eyes were bright. “Should I tell you about it, Manjoume?”

“How about you stop teasing me?” he muttered, and Judai laughed at that, a low sound.

“So, about six months ago-”

“Could you talk _any_ slower?!”

“-I ran into Edo while tracking down some duel spirits in Italy. It was pretty late, no one around. He was after some local crime boss who was printing counterfeit cards and using their sales to…. Well, it’s not important.” Judai shrugged, his eyes even brighter. “Me and Yubel helped him out with that, and after it seemed natural to have a couple of duels, five in total.”

“What was the score?”

“Ah, you must really want to know…”

“Judai.”

“Let’s just say that you’re now in a videocall with the reigning Duel Monsters champion.”

“Did he take a game off you?”

“He…got close,” Judai admitted with another laugh. “Those Destiny Heroes are something else, but my Neo-Spacians are just too good! Well, and Yubel helped out here and there.”

In secret, Judai, the idiot now living in his apartment and wearing mis-matched ankle socks, had already defeated the Pro League’s undisputed champion for the past two years. That fact changed nothing about how he viewed Edo’s strength, still like a high wall with a shadow that stretched out far, covered him even from a distance. Judai had always been the one to do the impossible, break through the barriers that had stopped anyone else.

“You got lucky,” was what he said, but he didn’t mean it. He would have in the past, in the time before he understood who Judai really was.

If Edo was the wall he needed to climb, then Judai was the mountain behind it.

“Ah, Manjoume? I think you dropped me!” Not quite. He had put his phone down on his chest, and he picked it up again. Judai waved. “Oh, and Yubel says hi.”

Manjoume sighed. Great, Judai’s demonic soulmate wanted a greeting. “Where is that winged bundle of joy anyways? Starting fires? Knocking over the furniture in the next room?”

He flinched at the purr of, “Don’t worry, I’m right here,” and the sudden jerk of the camera as it was swung around to reveal Yubel sitting on his coffee table, their ankles and wingtips crossed. Yubel was corporeal, given that they held and adjusted the camera, and Manjoume could only stare as they gave him a victory sign with one clawed hand, its fingers sheathed in dark scales. “Did you buy me a souvenir yet?” they asked, their fanged teeth flashing, and Manjoume almost ended the call on principle.

 _Maybe_ Yubel still freaked him out.

“Hey, play nice,” Judai chided, and, in complete disbelief, Manjoume watched as Yubel ducked their head and giggled.

“If you say so, dear.” Then they addressed him again, their green-orange eyes wide. “Hurry back so we can have our duel. It’s not good to keep us waiting.”

“R-Right.”

The camera swung again, and Judai took it while shaking his head, his last comment too quiet for Manjoume to hear. Whatever it was, it made Yubel chuckle.

Once Judai had the camera, holding it up to his face, the strangest conversation Manjoume had ever had somehow became even stranger. It happened suddenly, without warning, and it made him reconsider every event that he led him to the present moment: lying on his hotel bed late at night in nothing but a bathrobe and listening to Yuki Judai say, “By the way, that’s a good look for you. Those high collars you wear all the time can’t be comfortable,” while putting an arm over the back of his couch, the white fabric of his shirt drawing tight across his chest.

“I’m not taking fashion advice from _you_ of all people,” Manjoume snapped, pushing his wet hair off his forehead. He kept his hand by his face, curled it by his jaw.

“Manjoume, you’re so…” Judai broke off, laughing to himself.

Manjoume’s eyes narrowed, and he ground out, “Are you going to finish that sentence?”

“Hmm… Maybe later. I’ve kept you up pretty late, haven’t I?”

“Judai, it’s one sentence.”

“Yeah, but…” Judai shrugged, stupidly handsome yet _infuriating_. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to stay awake all night.”

“How kind of you to care about my well-being,” Manjoume said with thick sarcasm, and even though he tried to force it out of Judai, almost whining, _not_ begging, his rival was always ready with a perfect counter, every word accompanied by the low, taunting laugh of Yubel. It was like a duel, its stakes high but somehow mysterious, unknown. With every draw, he chased after victory.

He ended the call after two in the morning, cursing Judai in an empty, dark room.

At some point, the tie around his waist had become slack, most of his chest bare, and then, after that, Judai’s stare had cut through the screen. He could have tightened it.

He _could_ have.

\---


	9. The Next Turn

\---

Of all his duties as a professional duelist, fan signs were one of the most challenging.

They required constant concentration, vigilance, and personability, all of which became exponentially harder to maintain as the hours piled on top of each other. He shook every hand. He answered every question with sincerity. At his core, he loved these people, his devoted fans who he had won over by carving out victory after victory, by keeping his pride even after a hard loss. _“I want to try harder to reach my own dreams because of you,”_ or _“In the future, I’ll inspire others too!”_ were sentiments that he heard repeatedly, and yet they sounded new every time. They never failed to stoke his pride.

They made him stronger.

That day’s fan sign was held at a new dueling arena outside Domino City, the stage lined with queue markers and leading to his place at the end of it, the space behind his table soon piled with gifts. By noon, he had gone through three markers, two water bottles, and only one medium café latte, his concession to Dr. Krenshaw. Because Kaiba Corp had been a partner in its construction, the tiered seats all shone with built-in lights and miniature holo displays, the replaying graphic one of his Armed Dragon Level 10 unleashing a devastating attack, the resulting explosion flickering up to the holographic panels on the ceiling.

Signing a copy of Top Duelist magazine, himself on the cover, the dream he saw in Darkness all those years ago seemed fainter than it had before, like a wisp of memory that had started to lose its shape.

“Thank you for your hard work,” Aya, a regular attendee and long-time member of his fan club, exclaimed with a deep bow, and Manjoume passed her the magazine with a slight incline of his head.

“Thank you for your support,” he said, and, before she moved away, the next person already stepping closer, he added, “If you still have that Amazoness deck, then pick up their new support cards. _Amazoness Scouts_ comes to mind as something that might be useful for you.”

“O-Oh! Y-Yes, of course!” Pivoting, she bowed again, the tiger charms on her bag clacking together. “T-Thank you, Manjoume Thunder! Please cheer for me!”

“Give me a reason to cheer,” he said, and her grin showed that she understood his meaning. Uncapping his marker and giving another customary greeting, he scrawled his signature over an Ojama poster next. After that, it was an oversized copy of Ojama Yellow, the floating spirit cringing and whining, “Ah, watch out for my face!”

“You’re lucky I’m not giving you a mustache,” he whispered, Yellow wailing as his marker rounded an eye socket.

Before he could reach for the next item, Misako suddenly cut in line, a few apologies thrown over her shoulder. “We need to talk,” she said plainly, and immediately dragged him over the table, out of the crowd, and into an empty side-room.

“It’s Edo Phoenix,” she began, anticipation colouring her voice. “He wants to organize an exhibition match with you.”

Manjoume straightened to his full height. “Then book it.”

For once, Misako looked nervous, and she paused to adjust her signature silver rings, their colour matching her soft-grey suit. The fluorescent light overhead filled the room with a low, constant buzz. “W-Well, that’s the problem. According to his manager, he has requested that you call _him_ to organize this. The time for the call would be seven tonight, and I’ll adjust your schedule to compensate for it.”

“Sure, sounds good.”

“This could be career-defining for you,” she stated, meeting his eyes. A duffle bag full of papers, clipboards, and extra posters hung off her arm, and Manjoume almost corrected her, that it would defining for the both of them. “If you’re nervous, I can provide coaching, as I’ve heard that Edo Phoenix can be a very direct person.”

“‘Direct’ is a diplomatic word for it.”

“Oh, and I have his personal number right here, and-”

“Don’t bother,” Manjoume said, clicking on his phone. “I already have it.”

“-I can send his number to… To… You _what_?!” Misako yelped, the duffle bag crashing down and turning over.

“We know each other. You know that,” he added, and he dropped to his knees to grab some papers, Misako already working on the posters.

“Y-Yeah, but…” She paused, a poster roll in her hands and a look of absolute concentration on her thin face. “His number is a top secret in the dueling management world, and I… I didn’t realize you two were that close.”

“We’re not close,” Manjoume corrected, snapping an open binder shut. When Edo had been attacked, he had sterilized the needle from his travel kit with a lighter he found on the ground and then threaded the stitches through the open wound, each pull making Edo shiver with suppressed pain. Since that moment, their meetings at various galas and events had become more frequent, their jokes and comments said more and more as whispers, but ‘close’ was still not correct.

The gap between their ranks remained too wide, and he wanted to close it, surpass it.

“Can…I ask you a personal question?”

“Go ahead,” he said, fitting a binder into the duffel bag and grabbing another.

“Have you considered asking Phoenix for a match like this yourself?”

 _That_ made him laugh, and Misako gave him a curious, tilted expression, her ponytail spilling over her shoulder as she leaned closer.

“Of course not,” he replied, shaking his head. “What would be the point in that?”

“You…could’ve made this happen months ago.”

“No, I couldn’t have. A request like that, a favour like that…” His lips curled, the expression directed at the wall. Those weaknesses he had cast aside a long time ago, left suspended behind him like his brothers’ networks, their support. “If I’ve proved myself, then Edo will be the one to ask first. It’s his conversation to start, not mine.”

“I see.”

“Of course, if he wants a fight, I’ll give it to him,” Manjoume said as he took the full bag on his own shoulder.

“Thunder…”

“I’ve only just started to rise through the ranks. I’ll reach a place higher than this, I promise.”

Misako nodded and matched his strides, and they cut through the stadium together, every step accompanied by cheers and wails from the waiting crowd. The hours passed like that, and after he shared a hurried dinner with Misako of convenience-store stew packs and canned coffee in the back of the van, clothing hangers clicking together with each hairpin turn made. There were contracts to sign, articles to approve, and appearances to make still, Misako hooking a tie around his neck as he shoved on a suit jacket.

Five minutes before seven, he ducked into a maintenance room and took out his phone. Misako and her assistants had taken over the still-ongoing meeting with a production team, their goal an hour-long special on Duel Network, and coming back would a positive answer would close pretty much any deal they proposed.

A strong cold pierced his jacket. When he flexed it, his right hand stung, as if it wanted to stay contorted around an absent pen.

Even if the deal failed, his workday wasn't over yet. Not even close.

He scrolled down his contact list, but the name that surprised him wasn't Edo's: it was Judai's. It reminded him of that long conversation from the night before, the dangerous one that had edged the corners of how he felt, of those words he would not say yet.

A picture-perfect blue sky showed behind the person who answered his video call, the low, sloping landscape dashed with thick, green trees and barricaded by a high estate fence, cutting across the thin, grey road that drifted out of sight. Leaning back in an office chair, Edo had both feet on the desk in front of him, the woodwork delicate and embedded with flecks of gold. An orchid rested on the edge of it, its petals broad. And aside from the white bandage on his cheek, likely from some unsanctioned, late-night brawl, Edo looked like the prince of the dueling world, his short hair making his piercing blue eyes seem larger than before.

Manjoume, sulking in his patched suit jacket, a water heater visible behind his head, coughed and opened with, “So, it’s been awhile.”

“Three months and three weeks,” Edo replied, waving a hand carelessly. “The Annual Duels of Our Future Fundraiser in…Barcelona, I believe.” He swung his legs off the desk, the orchid teetering in its thin pot before balancing itself, and he continued in the same light voice, that of someone who expected success and enjoyed every second of it. “If I remember correctly, you had far too much champagne and did an impression of Ojama Yellow for me, complete with some drooling.”

“He…does that sometimes,” Manjoume muttered, and Edo raised an eyebrow.

“Right. Well, that’s not the subject of our discussion today. We are alone, correct?”

Roughly four meters by four meters, the room took little time to check for any lingering spirits. The Ojamas, bored by his schedule, were dedicating the day to teaching Bell how to knit, likely a difficult endeavour given her short, stubby paws.

After his sharp nod, Edo continued.

“It’s my opinion that the Pro League’s proposed changes to the points system are, to be as open as possible, misguided and damaging. The audience will suffer the most, subjected to the same matches over and over again. Dueling needs variety, and stifling that is…” He paused, considering his next words. “It will hurt the thing that we’re all fighting to protect.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself,” Manjoume said, leaning against the brick wall. “Is that why you’re wanting to duel me all of a sudden? To prove to the world that variety really is the spice of life?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Simple. Effective. But, if he was honest, one question still remained. “Why me?”

“I also just wanted an excuse to duel you again,” Edo said, and Manjoume recognized his sudden, fixed expression from final matches, knock-out matches, and grudge matches that were all broadcast in primetime and held before sold-out audiences in the tens of thousands. If he focused hard, his vision almost blurring, he could see tendril-like chains crossing behind Edo, a mark of the Destiny Heroes waiting in his deck. During any one of Edo’s duels, he could watch shards of congealed blood gather on his cards, as if Destiny Hero Plasma was waiting inside each one, ready to strike out.

“It’s a grudge match then, even after all of this time…”

“A loss against Ojamanjoume- Or, rather, against Manjoume _Thunder_ ,” Edo corrected, smirking, “is like a strike-through on my dueling record. There’s only one way to correct something like that.”

“By adding on a second loss?”

“Hmm. Unlikely.”

It was his turn to take charge, and he let his amusement show through, his smirk matching Edo’s own. “You know, I’ve heard a rumor that you’re not as impervious as you seem.”

“Oh? Who told you _that_?”

It felt like running his fingers along the edge of a trump card, aware that flipping it would have an instant effect, force a _reaction_. “Maybe you’ve heard of someone called Yuki Judai. He used to go to Duel Academia, graduated in my year, liked Elemental Heroes... Sound familiar?

“Ah, yes. _That_ Yuki Judai,” Edo replied, showing teeth. “Once I’m done with you, he’s my next target. You…wouldn’t happen to know where he is?”

At this hour, Judai was most likely fast asleep on the pull-out futon in his apartment with a half-corporeal Yubel stroking his forehead.

“Take a game off me and I’ll consider telling you.”

“Deal,” Edo declared, and from there, the conversation devolved into dates and hours, Edo eventually settling on a time roughly two months away. The location would be the new Kaiba Corp stadium, and Edo had shrugged off the question of how he would secure the high-demand venue on such short notice. “We’ll make it a Duel Network exclusive to drive up the ratings,” Edo said, swiveling his desk chair. “Oh, and I’ll put my PR firm on the storyline. You should have your scripts in a few days. If we’re going to sell it as a grudge match, then we should adjust our interviews before the event accordingly. A few comments here, some there…”

“R-Right,” Manjoume stammered as he took notes against the wall, Edo continuing all the same. By the end of it, he had three notebook pages and one napkin (a quick solution when he dropped the notebook, Edo already mid-sentence) covered in his semi-legible scrawl, and Edo had rattled off tournament statistics with the ease of a top pro, with the ease of someone still above him.

But he had a plan to lessen that distance, and he would climb after Edo with everything he had.

“You’re not going to win this,” he said at the end, the chains behind Edo filling their outlines, pushing against their reality as if _they_ wanted to answer his challenge and defend their master.

“I’d like to see you try, Thunder,” Edo finished, his smirk cold.

After the call, Manjoume pulled out his phone, punched in the first characters that came to mind, and sent them. Judai would probably reply late again, maybe even the next day, but that didn’t matter.

He had already asked the question.

\---

“Wait, hold on. Let me get this straight.” Judai, featuring more bed head than usual, covered a yawn with his hand and rotated the camera. “In about two months, you have a televised duel with Edo at the new Kaiba Corp stadium.”

“Keep going,” Manjoume said, one headphone in his ear, the other shoved in his suit pocket. Any second now, the van would screech outside his hotel, and, for the sake of his throbbing feet and shoulders, he wanted it to happen, a fresh bed waiting. Next to him, Misako was already hashing out a tentative preparation schedule with Edo’s manager, Emeralda, and their conversation sounded as a flurry of dates and numbers.

“And because I’ve taken some games off Edo, you want me to be your coach.”

“Yes.”

“You…want _me_ to be _your_ coach?”

“Just accept already.”

Judai rubbed at his eyes. “I’m not awake enough to process this. Give me a sec.”

“Hurry up,” Manjoume muttered, and he clicked the screen off as he exited the van, his jacket collar high enough to cover his face as he made for the hotel lobby. With a quick wave in his direction, Misako took off in the direction of the ground-floor bar, her heels clacking against the spotless white-grey marble tile and her free hand swinging a full binder with every quick step. Calling for an elevator, Manjoume stood in front of the sealed, mirrored doors and waited, his reflection bearing dark circles and sulking back at him.

“So…. You’re not going to show me around?” Judai asked, the angle of Manjoume’s phone giving him a clear shot of the veined tiles and probably not much else. Maybe the corner of his dress shoe.

After a beleaguered sigh, he snapped, “Shut up,” and, consequently, startled the elderly couple exiting the elevator. He made a quick gesture at his earphone, as if _that_ would excuse him, and folded himself into one of the elevator’s gilded corners, the doors snapping shut.

Alone.

 _Almost_ alone.

With another sigh, aware of what he had to do now, Manjoume clicked the screen on. There was Judai, lying on his side with one arm under his head and blinking up at him, the morning light on every strand of his disheveled hair.

“Judai, please,” he began, his hesitation caught sixteen-fold by the mirrors around him. Like this, he saw how his shoulders sank, how desperation made his own face unfamiliar.

With gritted teeth, he waited. Floors passed, and Judai must have dropped his phone, the screen nothing but grey while muted sounds competed in the background. Judai righted it when he was in the hallway, one hand clawed in his pocket, the other applying pressure to his phone as if Judai could feel it, recognize it.

“Manjoume, I’ll help you out. I promise that,” Judai said, _stated_ , and the warmth in that voice split his thoughts, scattered them in an instant. “Guess I’ve managed to pick up a second job then… Ha, this kind of situation… It doesn’t suit me, does it?”

“I…wouldn’t say that,” Manjoume said as he slammed the door behind him, the automatic lock clicking. He tried another response. “When we practice, don’t you dare go easy on me. If it’s a hundred loses, a thousand loses… The number is irrelevant as long as it makes me stronger in the end.”

The dream he pursued was his own, but others had tied their own dreams to his. His right hand still ached from a fan sign earlier that day. Flecks of blue-black from his markers marked his palm, the black from the one Misako had lent him.

The weight of that day pressed into him, and he leaned into the door for a moment, one hand dragging on his tie, making it slack. City lights banded his dark hotel room, landed on him.

“Manjoume…”

“What I’m asking you to do, it’s just a matter of business. We can work out an exchange, something fair.” With a final tug, the knot opened, and he let the fabric slide through his fingers, down to the floor. His shoes were next. He kicked them into some corner, unthinking. “Even if this starts out as a favour to me, it won’t stay that way for long. I…don’t…”

“Maybe you should lie down.”

The idea was good. Rolling his jacket off his shoulders, the right one seizing at first, and pulling off his belt, he sank onto the wide, empty bed, the sudden contact switching off some switch deep in his brain. He could hear Judai still.

“Get some rest, okay? You look like you need it.”

“Tomorrow is the quarter finals, Guerro and X on my side of the bracket. Sho’s on the other, still dragging around that Power Bond card…” He snorted. “Sho, that guy… He’s in the final stages of having the Cyber Art Duel League approved, and if we end up on opposite ends of that arena, it’s going to be close. He won’t give me a single opening, I know that better than anyone.”

Judai hummed in agreement, and Manjoume closed his eyes, his phone face-down on his chest. The stiff panels of his dress shirt were wrong for this. They resisted when he spread his arms out, pointed knuckles dragging over smooth sheets.

“Good night, Manjoume,” Judai said, and those soft words grabbed him.

The light of the screen was stark, but he stared into it. Judai had tilted his head to the side. Red light edged his jaw.

“Judai, when I’m back, we’re also going to talk about _this_.” He gestured towards the screen and then himself. “I mean it. We’re not still…” Cursing, he broke off, a hand tearing through his stiff hair. While the people around him had clicked sake glasses and nodded over the closed deal of his upcoming special – his view of the crowded bar intersected by outstretched arms, by bottles strewn at all angles – he had picked out these words and repeated them over and over again, his own glass full, his nods and bows automatic. “‘Rival,’ it feels like a word we’ve started to outgrow.”

In his head, the words had not sounded like they did now: pitched too low, almost a whisper. They were meant to be said without glancing away, not like he had when Judai’s expression had turned serious, its intensity like a sudden heat.

In his head, Judai had not taken so long to respond. But, then again, he had always been the unpredictable one.

“Okay.”

Manjoume nodded. His eyes slid shut. “Okay.”

“But, Manjoume,” Judai continued, and Manjoume heard the futon creak, Judai’s next words louder, closer, “I think we both already know what’s going to happen next, don’t we?”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh, and Manjoume?”

He kept his eyes shut.

“Hm?”

Judai voice became a whisper. “Tomorrow, show them who you are.”

He felt himself grin.

\---


	10. Evenly Matched

\---

The crowd’s roar reached a new high as Cyber End Dragon cleaved through the last of Prismatica’s defenses, mirrored shards of light piercing the ground below her and erupting in pillars of white-red fire, and every angle of the ace monster’s devastating attack was caught and replayed on the hundreds of monitors above. Blue-faced, the dual announcers continued their rapid-fire analysis, the subject of their endless praise the same as the crowd’s, their chant echoing loud and fast, the force behind it overwhelming, undeniable.

Tens of thousands shouted Sho’s title in unison, and Manjoume, waiting at the side of the stage, watched as Marufuji Sho held his duel disk high.

An absolute victory.

His own defeat of X in the semi-finals had been routine, almost _easy_ as strategies and counters had clicked through his mind, the cards he had held almost vibrating in anticipation. There would be a break for commercials, further analysis, and two quick interviews, and after that would be the collision between them.

“Nervous?” Misako asked as she matched his strides, and, smirking, he smoothed out his torn fingerless gloves, their old stitches close to bursting. All black, covered with added tears and seams, his dueling outfit suited him. As he passed through screaming fans and wide-eyed staff members, all drawn to the wave of his hand, his signature coat billowed behind him like a flag, like a declaration of who he was, of who he _would_ be. A thunderbolt pin kept his high collar closed, the design repeated in the large, studded buckle of his belt. At his side, Misako continued his chosen theme in a sleek electric-blue suit, her usual spiral earrings switched out for crooked lighting branches of white gold.

“I need a minute, that’s all,” he said, and Misako nodded and took him down a different hallway, the backstage a labyrinth of plain grey-white doors. His dressing room was strewn with unused pieces of clothing, the mirrored desk piled with cans of hairspray, makeup brushes, and stacks of headshots he still had to sign. Throwing his arm out, he cleared enough space to lay out his deck.

The problem was still there, a slight but persistent knot.

Untangling it resulted in him taking out half of his deck, the bright Ojamas and their support cards staring up at him, the dragons face-down and shoved aside. He added three copies of Rescue Cat. Then, two copies of Evenly Matched. Next, two of Solemn strike. Ojama Yellow blabbered over his shoulder, their words unheard as he sorted through stacks of spare cards, connections made without a second thought.

The final deck would gouge into him, taking his own life points repeatedly, but, in return, it would give him control, a valuable thing against an opponent like Marufuji Sho.

“It’s a risk,” Misako commented as he added another trap card. “Without your dragons, power is missing from this deck.”

“A different kind of power is needed to deal with Sho.”

After fanning his cards out one last time, his eyes drifting over their portraits, he folded the deck together and then shuffled it once. A piece was still missing, but its edges were ones that he did not recognize, like they were of a piece that still needed to be carved out.

How strange.

“Plus, the crowd would get bored if there’s too many dragons on the field,” Manjoume added, grin sardonic. “By the way, don’t tell Seto Kaiba I said that.”

“My lips are sealed.”

That was the deck he declared to the referees minutes later, the head referee’s forehead creasing as he cycled through the cards. Combo-heavy. Low on attack points. Weak to spell and trap counters. And, if he didn’t make the right draws, prone to ‘bricking,’ meaning that it would fill his hand with irrelevant cards, just halves and quarters of potential combos.

Like this, he could defeat himself.

He clicked the deck into its holster, bowed to the referees, and signed his declaration.

Like this, he moved forward on a knife’s edge.

\---

 “Woah! They’re all here for us?”

“Ahh, I’m getting stage fright!”

“A-Are you _sure_ we should do this?!”

“Just follow me,” he ordered to the pale Ojama brothers, and at the boom of his name through the stadium, he snapped up his coat collar and strode out onto the stage, his image spanning every holoscreen and causing the roar of the crowd to climb even higher. His mark put him at the far left corner, and with every step there, he felt his smirk widen, deepen. The thrum and pulse of thousands reached him here, made the floor below shake and quiver, and something electric coiled beneath his skin.

He stopped. He threw one arm out.

“Some of you don’t seem to know my name yet,” he began, and more cheers exploded in response, thousands responding, echoing him. The stands were full of ever-shifting colours and lights, and he pivoted on his heel to take them all in, his eyes raking across the gathered thousands.

He put his hand up.

“One!”

“Ten!” boomed back at him.

“One-hundred!”

“One-thousand!” was screamed from all sides, and he snapped his hand down again, fingers taut.

“Manjoume…”

“Thunder! Thunder!”

Smirking, he took his position, one hand gliding over the sleek duel disk on his forearm. The new deck was already inside it, half-sheathed like a weapon. It ached to be drawn, to reveal itself to the waiting crowd, and with a final flare of his tattered coat, he jerked his chin up and arched an eyebrow. The graphics went dark. The lights drew away from him, a pale blue slowly colouring them.

When Sho had debuted, the announcers had called him the “Toybox Master,” as if using some bright-coloured vehicroids had meant that he was still a child. And although Manjoume had not been there for that first match, he remembered the way Sho had retold it years later, the nickname still following him, then a reminder of past fears, past mistakes.

That night, they had sat together on the stone steps outside one of Pegasus’s country estates, the wind cutting through their ill-fitted suits, and Sho had almost cried in shame when he had reached the end of that story: his loss on the sixteenth turn. To Sho, it had felt like a door slamming shut.

Manjoume blinked back the sudden memory, and even though the next cheers weren’t for him, they still made his heart race, his hands shiver with something elusive and electric that only came in moments like this. It became intense.

It climbed higher.

Sho, the New Kaiser, commanded the stage with a single gesture, his signature blue jacket set in rigid, steep angles, its epaulets a molten silver under the searing stage lights. With his hair pulled back tight and his duel disk extended like a blade, Sho looked like the serious opponent that he was, any humor stripped away, buried for the sake of a deck that demanded respect and took everything its wielder had to offer. Even now, something draconic coiled around Sho, its metallic scales sparking with red embers, and Manjoume held his stare as the cheers went even louder than before.

From the first turn, Manjoume went on the attack.

But Sho pushed him back, amassing vehicroid after vehicroid until the field began to shimmer with cybernetic scales, the first Cyber Dragon landing with a crash and then striking through Ojama Green, his scream cut off. And by the fifth turn, Manjoume was the one with gritted teeth, tilting over the edge of a sharp knife.

“Ojama Country!”

When the card landed, the holoprojectors formed steep hills around them, small houses lodged in their crevices and joined by roads that climbed up and disappeared into the rafters. Those hills flickered, suddenly transparent, and when Manjoume straightened to his full height, he knew his next move. The spirits around him had gathered.  

“Oh! There’s Manjoume Thunder’s signature field spell!” the head announcer, Big Mic, screamed.

“We’ve seen reversals from Manjoume Thunder before,” said the co-announcer, Mitsuhara. “Could this card be the key to the biggest reversal yet?”

“The original attack and defense of all monsters on the field are switched.” Ignoring their sudden yelps, he glanced down at his hand. Then, he struck. “I play Polymerization, fusing Yellow and Black to bring out Ojama Knight.”

If he ended it here, Cyber End Dragon would burst Ojama Knight with a stream of draconic fire.

He continued. He played what he had drawn.

“I activate Raigeki, destroying all monsters on your side of the field.”

It went through, metallic scales shooting across the stage as a yellow beam poured down and split the dragon open. Sho’s field was open, and Manjoume threw his arm out as he gave the order. “Ojama Knight, direct attack.”

Sho’s eyes flashed.

“Trap activate! Mirror Force!”

“Counter trap. Solemn Judgement.”

The knight continued to raise his sword even as Manjoume’s life points were cleaved in two, and he locked eyes with Sho as the sword began to fall.

No, it wasn’t over then.

The sword did land on its target, Sho seizing and hitting the stage on his knees as his life points went below one-thousand, but it had a response that Manjoume barely survived. In the reflection of the sword, he had seen the ever-moving coils of what still waited for him, the silver wreathed in shadows and drawing them even closer.

Dripping with slick, black fluid, Cyberdark Dragon burst up from the floor of the stage, its veined wings spreading out over them. It curved claws cradled a twisted mass of cold silver close to its frail, spider-like body. With a flick of Sho’s hand, Ojama Country crashed down, houses shattering when they hit, and the battle phase cost him Ojama Knight, his life points buffered by a trap card.

One hundred life points.

That suited him. His _position_ suited him: his side of the field wide open, almost careless at first glance.

This was who he was, and, running his thumb around its corner, he turned over the card he drew. The silence of the stadium sank into him.

He broke it.

\---

“H-He’s done it! He’s done it!”

Big Mic’s hoarse voice cut in, almost buried by the crowd. “Manjoume Thunder, facing down the New Kaiser himself, has made a comeback like we’ve never seen before! Ojama King is here. The Ojama brothers are out, ready to assist! But the question remains: can he do it?”

“Can the zero-attack monsters take out Cyber End?”

“We’ll have to wait and see! The energy in the studio… It’s too high to handle!”

Manjoume leaned his forehead against his palm, breathing hard. His hand had two cards, all others on the field.

Bit by bit, he had chipped away at the nightmarish Cyberdark Dragon, finally sinking it at the cost of too many cards, with moves that barely went through the barricade of spells and traps Sho had built around it.

“Boss! Focus!”

“Yeah, let’s do it!”

“We’re all together! Let’s go!”

“Wait for me,” he muttered, too low for the microphone. The Ojamas were dancing on their cards, their king showing his massive teeth as he smiled down on them, and victory lay somewhere behind the monster still guarding Sho, its scales dented, some broken from the endless combat.

Remnants from Ojama Country still lingered on the edges of the stage: lumps of dirt, stray twigs, hunks of plaster from the tiny houses and the blocks that made up their tiny water well. The card art could not capture all of it, nor could the holograms that had tried to approximate what it felt like to stand within it, to be under the strange faded sky while the spirits around walked on stones they had taken from the nearby river, only the flattest chosen for that purpose. Somewhere within that labyrinth was a house smaller than all others, its nameplate new and carved from a piece of dark wood.

With that lasting thought, he straightened to his full height.

“New Kaiser.”

Startled, Sho’s persona dropped when their eyes met.

“Y-Yes?”

“This isn’t over here,” he said, his shoulders rolling back. He smiled. “Let’s duel again soon.”

Sho nodded, and the dragon curled around him let out a metallic chirp, its controller giving it a warm smile. Later he would tell Sho what it had said at that moment.

He turned his hand over, Ojamuscle catching the cameras first, then Shield and Sword. The field exploded with a flurry of actions, the Ojama brothers squealing as their King flung his arms out and took in their power, his eggshell-grey body pulsing, its veins stark, growing larger and larger. And Cyber End met the King when he attacked, streams of energy shooting out of its gaping jaws and streaming off its target, the deflected light spreading throughout the stadium as the cacophony grew and grew. With an uppercut, King threw its heavy body aside, and Manjoume, staggering, ran an empty hand over his face.

He opened his eyes, unaware that he had closed them. At his side, Sho had one hand extended, and the holograms around them flickered into nothing. It was bright, too bright.

“Next time,” Sho said, and Manjoume took the offered hand.

“Next time.”

“Although,” Sho began, rocking back on his heels, “I think there’s something you need to correct right now.”

He stared at Sho, the crowd surging. “Like what?”

“Well, I _think_ I just heard someone call you Manjoume without the honorific. So…”

He smirked. He understood.

When his hand shot up, the crowd was ready. Sho, still at his side, joined in and echoed every word.

“One!”

“Ten!”

“One-hundred!”

\---

**Yuki Judai [20:50]: 1000!**

**Yuki Judai [20:50]: now THAT was a duel!!**

**Yuki Judai [20:51]: congrats!**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [21:18]: i think i deserve more praise than that**

**Yuki Judai [23:06]: hmmmmm…**

**Yuki Judai [23:06]: then hurry back~**

\---

“S-Someone destroyed our village?!”

“It was a hologram, Blue. Geeze.” Green sighed. “How many times do I gotta explain this…?”

“B-But we won?”

“Uh, technically, _we_ won,” Yellow boasted, pointing to his brothers. “So, some respect would be nice.”

“Y-You guys?!”

“Technically, Ojama King was the one who attacked,” Manjoume said, and three of the Ojamas deflated, Black face-planting into the dirt. The fence behind them squeaked when two winged Ojama landed on it, both with mail bags around their necks, and Blue almost tumbled down the stairs in surprise, his usually thin nerves at their breaking point.

The familiar slopes and cracks of Ojama Village were around him: the thick mushroom trees sheltered small fairy circles below, the creaky well wheel spun with even the slightest breeze, and small creatures always darted in and out of the sight, the butterflies here bearing an extra set of wings. Had he been corporeal, the clouds of dirt might’ve bothered him, as it stained every stone step and creeped into every domed house, but it only wisped through his image and left no mark.

Impressions of bare feet were in the patches of reddening dirt, and, ignoring the babble around him, Manjoume let his eyes wander until he found some pawprints, the slight line behind them from the brush of a heavy furred tail.

He tried to visit Bell at least once a day. Sometimes it was a matter of seconds – himself passed out in the media van as it hurried to yet-another event, a suit jacket shoved between his head and the window. But sometimes, like tonight, one soon after the final match of the 49th Annual Duelist Japan Cup, it went for much longer than that, minutes passing like grains of dirt through parted fingers, careless.

With Ojama Red’s help, Bell made a grand entrance. Shoved in a rickety wheelbarrow, she squealed and bounced while her driver ran it in a circle around the Manjoume statue, kicking up a massive cloud of dirt that had the other Ojamas coughing and some scurrying away, their briefs pulled up over their noses. Screeching to a halt, Red – in a move that suddenly had Manjoume on his feet and shoving one incorporeal arm through the little _idiot_ ’s face – tipped the wheelbarrow and let Bell hit the ground with a heavy thud.

“Wahh!! Hey, hey! Chill out, Boss Man!”

“You little…” Tearing away, Manjoume dropped to his knees and tried to roll her over, his hands again sliding through, hitting _nothing_. Her short paws waggled, too short to touch the ground, and Manjoume, grinding his back teeth down, had to _watch_ as Red strode over, rammed a board under her, and jumped on it, the force enough to flip Bell over and onto her paws.

“See? That’s the quickest way to get her around!” Red declared, and Bell, much to his surprise, let out a bright chirp and bobbed side-to-side. “I call it the Ojama Red Express!”

“Her shell’s pretty hard,” Blue added, and, pulling what looked like a walnut out of the little pouch at his waist, tossed it at Bell. When it hit her, Bell still bobbing and chirping away, it cracked open.

“Whose…idea was _this_?” Manjoume ground out, and the two Ojama below immediately pointed at each other.

“Like, it’s _called_ the Ojama Red Express, but Blue made the wheelbarrow! He did it!”

“R-Red started it!”

“Just…” With a heavy sigh, Manjoume crossed his arms. “Whatever. Go away.”

They hesitated long enough to make him growl, and _that_ seemed to get the desired reaction. “Well, have fun, Bell!” Red said with a smack to her shell, Bell wiggling her toes in an almost-wave. Blue, easier to intimidate, scampered off without another word, kicking up a fresh cloud of dust.

Manjoume sat back down on his chosen stair and, her red tail swishing, Bell settled into the groove at his side. Every day he asked her the same two questions.

“Are the Ojamas bothering you?”

Putting her weight on either paw, Bell bobbed side-to-side. It meant ‘no’. Next question.

“Is there anything you need right now?”

Bell kept bobbing, her eyes bright behind their thick mask. Before he could continue, she began chirping away, repeating the same two syllables. While he couldn’t fully understand her yet, the relationship they had still too new for that, he wasn’t stupid enough to miss what that sound meant.

Judai.

“I’ll see him in about two days,” he said, looking away from the spirit at his side who practically glowed from those simple words. “I…can tell you more about him then, more than I usually do.”

Judai, their conversation together.

After that final match against Sho, he had dragged himself through a whirlwind of interviews, panels, and fan signs, each overwhelming in a new, sudden way. And, if he approached the situation as an outsider, his decision to take a two-week vacation made no immediate sense, the current rush of media attention something he could continue to fan, continue to bolster with appearance after appearance.

And yet, he was tired.

When Bell began to coo softly, his hand passed through her hard shell for the second time that day.

“I need to figure some things out. Plus, there’s Judai and I…” He paused, fingers curling in. “Nothing’s ever simple when it comes to that guy. Maybe you know that better than I do.”

Inside Judai’s head, there had to be chaos still, endless collisions that resulted in the ever-present, shifting static that followed him. When they were close, it was demanding, almost tangible. Bell had started to chirp again, and he indulged her, his own words quiet.

“We both want the same thing for him, I think.” That one-syllable chirp was a ‘yes’, and it sounded over and over. Manjoume breathed in slowly. “He needs to clear his head. Then, after…”

 _That_ answer was already somewhere in the back of his mind: still too delicate to say, to even _focus_ on. It had started to form all of those years ago as the sea had surged against the cliffs of Academy Island, Judai the one who had always smelled like its sharp salt.

From one house behind them, there was a loud clang and some curses, and Bell spun around to observe the jabbering Ojamas. Keeping his hands in his pockets, he glanced down at her. Healed-over scabs bulged through the cracks of her shell, it shaped like her namesake, and her babble already seemed to belong here, lighter and thinner than the crass, simple words of the Ojamas yet, somehow, matching with them, complementing them. Wobbling a little, Bell clambered up one stone step.

“Go to them,” Manjoume said, and she peered up at him, cat-like pupils wide.

“ _Ch-irp_?”

“I’ll keep an eye on him, so don’t worry about it.”

“ _Chirp_!”

Red and Blue were quick to intercept Bell, Blue looping a rope around her and Red pulling on it, hauling her up the last narrow steps. Finding her balance, Bell then swung around and clipped the dark, coconut-like fruit Black held out, splitting its thick hide open, and the Ojamas cheered and chatted as they divided the white insides. Bell took her portion under her shell with one paw, her tail swinging in a wide arch.

A few seconds, and then Manjoume was rising up from his hotel bed. He cracked his neck and blinked fast, the earth tones of the village slowly fading, lingering in the corners of the room that was now too big, too empty.

“You’re back?”

His heart monitor was a travel one, a coil of wires and sticky tabs that he took from his wrists, neck, and chest with practiced motions, careful not to leave tangles. While Misako had, understandably, looked puzzled when he had first visited Ojama Country in the back of the company van, she _did_ go along without asking too many questions.

“Sort of,” he muttered, and at her raised eyebrow, he added, “It’s…just a phrase. I’m done for now.”

“I’ve approved the scripts from Edo’s team.” And, reaching for his phone, he saw them waiting in his inbox. Something to read on the plane, if nothing else. “We’ll hold back until the month before the duel. Then, we’ll need to hit every major network, drum up some support for our side.” Her ponytail whipped to the side as she pivoted, one finger hooked under her chin. “The narrative to push is that of a grudge match, one that can be seen as the culmination of a great, lasting rivalry. There’s respect, of course, but also emotion.”

He dropped the heart monitor in his suitcase, kicked it out of the way, and threw on a clean shirt. “For what it’s worth, I’ve found myself a coach.”

He managed to catch her off-guard. “An…outside coach? What about those at the agency?”

“Trust me, there’s no one else like the person I have in mind,” he said, throwing his bangs to the side. They fell into something close to his usual style. He went with it.

“Is…this person why you’re taking a vacation?” He made a vague noise, and Misako muttered, “Ah, it all makes sense… More like a training camp,” to herself, one heel tapping.

Minutes before the recording of Duel Kingdom later that night, an irate stylist spraying him with hairspray while another shoved an eyeliner pencil into his waterline, Misako grabbed his shoulder and whispered, “Should I set aside some of our budget for this coach of yours? If this person is outside our agency, they may charge double or even triple the industry average.”

Laughing suddenly had earned him a sore scalp and a black line across his nose. “Yeah, _right_.” He tried not to move as hands flew everywhere, but the laughter just kept coming up. “Like this idiot even knows what the average is.”

That made Misako stop writing in her scheduling book, her eyebrows reaching a new high. “Are…you sure that this is the right person for the job?”

The producer had burst through the door and screamed orders then, the bodies around him surging forward, taking him with them, but he had still turned to her with an honest answer ready, a smile flashing for those simple words.

“There can be no one else.”

\---

But his flight back was delayed.

Stretched out over the international terminal, the SG Airline’s Executive Lounge consisted of a large, circular room filled with chairs, tables, couches, and, important for any traveler, chargers and many available outlets. Outside the panorama windows, sleek white planes moved between terminals, many of their wings bearing the decals of famous duel monsters or, in some rare cases, actual duelists. The grid of runways, traffic lanes, and low, rigid buildings extended far into the distance, those lines broken by patches of dull concrete or yellowing grass. Inside, every finish, every texture suggested luxury and class, but the persistent scuffs, stains, and tears made by previous travelers undermined them. The table he had taken by the window bore a large, curved scratch across its glass top. Two corners were chipped. The back leg wobbled.

The city rose in the distance as a series of jagged edges, like white teeth bared to an open sky.

Folded in the corner, he had seen a few phones dart in his direction, and his name sometimes broke though the subdued, hushed conversations around him. All of that was expected, something he had almost gotten used to.

Still, it made it near _impossible_ to make the Ojamas shut up.

“Oh! It’s huge! Hey, Boss, where’s that one going?!”

“Ah, Yellow, he won’t know that…”

“Surprising the wings don’t fall off when it goes up into the air,” Green added, face tight against the window, and, with a heavy sigh, Manjoume shoved Yellow off his saucer, the little spirit darting away with a loud cry.

“Waah!!!”

“Cheer up, Boss! We’re going on…” Black pounded the table with his feet while his brothers clapped, the mock drum roll ending with a poof of smoke and three Ojamas emerging in matching swimming goggles, flower-patterned trunks, and flip-flops. “VA-CA-TION!!”

Three tenured Ivy League professors, two Fields medalists, and a selection of world-class experimental physicists, dimensional experts, and students of the great Dr. Zweinstein had, on Dr. Krenshaw’s request, tried to explain the phenomenon of the Ojamas conjuring objects at will, which had resulted in Manjoume awkwardly describing their outfits and props to a crowded room of intimidating, hard-faced scholars. By the end of one month, they had somehow moved even _further_ away from an answer than before, the Ojama brothers themselves bored by the analysis and often falling asleep during questioning.

Yellow, adjusting the pink flotation ring around his belly, piped up with, “So, where we going?”

Because his agency had warned him against ‘talking to himself’ in public, more than a few videos already floating around the internet and surfacing now and then, Manjoume put a hand over his face, feigned a cough, and then muttered, “Back to Fortunis and that’s _it_. Stop asking questions.”

There were, of course, tears, comically oversized and sipping off the table as the brothers embraced each other. And Manjoume, letting out another sigh, _had_ wanted some kind of distraction from the noise, but he still flinched at the sight of two very familiar duelists entering the lounge, Johan throwing out a cheery wave while Sho, never the mastery of subtlety, yelped, “No way! _You’re_ here?!”

Every pair of eyes (plus, by extension, Ojama Green’s mono-eye) snapped onto him, and Manjoume, thinking fast, pieced together a sentence that didn’t include any curse words or involve him threatening to dismember Sho. “It’s an airport, Sho. Try to keep it down.”

“Almost a Duel Academia reunion with the three of us like this,” Johan, the diplomat, remarked with a wide grin, and he stopped at the edge of the table with an expectant look, the ever-present cat spirit lolling its head to the side. When Manjoume nodded, he sat down and signalled for Sho to do the same.

Sho did sit down, and he pushed his chair as close as possible to Manjoume’s own.  

“Do you own a shirt without any holes in it?” And, fast enough that Manjoume flinched and spilled his tea, Sho shoved his jacket sleeve up and frowned at the torn seams underneath.

“What kind of a question is _that_?” Manjoume snapped, and he shoved Sho off with one hand, the other pilling napkins over the spreading red-black tea. The Ojamas, helpful as always, squealed and held each other.

“Oh, I just thought,” Sho began, “that the first-place finalist for this year’s Japan Cup would take a little more pride in his appearance. I know that _I_ would.”

Manjoume glared at him. “Get over yourself.”

Sho held his glare. “Well, Mr. Cheapskate, I think the least you can do is buy me lunch. Although,” he added, Manjoume bristling at his taunting look, “judging by the state of your shirt, you probably wouldn’t do that, _would_ you?”

Somehow the argument ended with Sho sauntering over to the espresso bar, Manjoume’s own jet-black credit card tucked into one blazer pocket, and Manjoume _then_ realized that this scenario had happened several times before. Hell, he’d even given Sho his medium coconut cream latte before his quarter-finals match.

“How…does he…?”

“He’s got those puppy dog eyes,” Johan observed, the cat spirit’s tail waving back and forth. Its interest, like that of its owner, was clear. “A very, very effective weapon.”

“Yeah, apparently,” Manjoume muttered. “Next time, he’s buying his own damn lunch.”

Johan leaned back. “Ah, why do I feel like you’ve said that before…?”

“He’s got you there,” Ojama Yellow said, and Manjoume, to make his point, stuck his elbow through Yellow’s foot, the little spirit poofing away with a high-pitched squeal. When Johan’s cat suddenly pounced on the trailing smoke, Green and Black, their own shrieks enough to make Manjoume wince, took off after him.

“I ran into Sho after the baggage check,” Johan said, unprompted. “Got a conference in Oslo coming up, so I should prepare for that. I’m…not sure what Sho’s up to, actually. I imagine it’s something to do with the Pro League.”

“Interviews, probably,” Manjoume said. Johan’s poofy white shirt could only be described as ‘Pirate Chic’, and Manjoume found himself eyeing one embroidered cuff.

“So, what’re you up to?”

“Top secret,” he said against the rim of his cup, and Johan chuckled. The focus has shifted off him and Sho, the conversations around their table subdued. Outside, it had started to rain, drops pelting the concrete below and leaving dark, star-like marks behind.

The cat spirit’s long ears perked up, and that was all the warning Manjoume had before a heavy tray landed in the middle of the table, making his saucer jump and fall with a hard clatter. Sho, ignoring the glare leveled at his head, passed Johan a full cup of coffee and a massive toasted sandwich – ciabatta bread, mozzarella cheese, and tomato, by the looks of it.

“Oh, thanks!”

“No problem,” Sho replied smoothly, and when he held out the credit card, Manjoume was quick to take it back before Sho bought anyone _else_ lunch.

“Guess I should thank you too, Manjoume.”

“You should,” he said, and Johan gave him a sunny grin.

“Well, thank you.”

“You know,” Manjoume began, Sho already halfway through a greasy piece of pizza, “I definitely prefer the New Kaiser to this Marufuji Sho person. Only _one_ of them takes advantage of my good nature and has horrible table manners.”

“Look who’s talking,” Sho shot back, mouth full. “At least _I_ don’t wipe up soy sauce with my own jacket.”

Sho had him there, and he decided to switch tactics, sneering as he asked, “Please, remind me _why_ I bother talking to you?”

“Because you like me. It’s that simple.”

“Unlikely,” Manjoume concluded, and Johan, elbows on the table, laughed at that.

“See, like I said, this feels almost like a reunion.” He took a sip of coffee, and Manjoume knew where the conversation would go next, the place it inevitably _would_ go anytime he and Johan spoke to one another. Sho had dug into another piece of pizza, and he almost choked on it when Johan tilted his head and asked, “So, how’s living with Judai?”

“Hard to say. I’ve been away a lot,” Manjoume said while Sho stared at him, bug-eyed. “He hasn’t burned down the place yet.”

“Hmm. Sounds like a good start to me.” Sho had moved on to shaking him, and Manjoume ignored it. Johan stirred his coffee, showed yet-another seamless grin, and then added, “Just so you know, I’m cheering for you two.”

Sho interrupted with a loud, “T-Time out, time out! Suspension of action!”

Manjoume arched an eyebrow. “What’s with the referee act? We’re not even dueling.”

“I’m so, _so_ confused right now,” Sho blurted out. “You’re _living_ with Judai? How…did _that_ happen?! W-What’s with all the secrets?”

“I was going to tell you about it,” Manjoume said, which was the truth, “but there are still some things to figure out with the arrangement.” He coughed. He chose his next words carefully. “All of this is very…new.”

Sho had an observant streak, one that Manjoume normally credited to his ‘Kaiser’ persona, and it showed itself now as he leaned back, propped his glasses up, and gave Manjoume a summary of his own situation. “So, let’s see if I have this right. You have a boarding pass for an American flight, have taken a break from your Pro League schedules, and have been living with Judai for a short time. I know for a _fact_ that you took out an apartment to help with your secret job, which means that…” Sho snapped his fingers. “You’re not the _only_ one caught up in this Industrial Illusions thing. Judai is as well!”

“You’re pretty good at this,” Johan said, and Sho puffed his chest out.

“He’s got a lot to learn…”

“Hmmm. Well, all of this means that you’re going back to see Judai.”

“That’s…not the only reason,” he mumbled.

He missed the change in Sho, too preoccupied with stirring his almost-cold tea.

“The last time I saw Judai was in March,” Sho said, and the softer tone made him look up, made him listen. “He does that sometimes. Just shows up and sleeps on my couch for a few days.” A memory must have flashed then, Sho’s voice turning even softer, splitting the conversations around them that slowly pressed in. “But that last time… It’s like he wasn’t even listening to me. I hasn’t I’ve seen him like that for a long time, almost like…”

Johan was the one who asked.

“Like what?”

Sho’s grey eyes passed over each of them, and Manjoume waited for him, his nails tapping against the table. Just noise. Something restless. “Like he wasn’t in this world with the rest of us anymore. Sure, I’m used to Judai spacing out. I’m sure we all are, and I really don’t notice it unless someone else mentions it. But, that last time…” Sho frowned. “I knew he had changed. When I tried to bring it up, he just…blocked me out.”

“Sounds like what happened to me in the summer,” Johan said, and Sho turned to him with wide eyes.

“Johan…?”

“I can’t say too much about it, sorry. But you’re not the only one to notice that change in him.” When the cat spirit nudged his forehead, he seemed to lean into it, as if that brush of short fur could feel real. Over his back, splayed feathers flickered. Soft colours followed, and then a pale pegasus ran its neck along its duelist’s side. “That Judai, he took on too much by himself again. It wore him out.”

“So, is he…? I-I mean… Is he doing…better?”

At those words, Johan’s smile turned honest. Fur, feathers, and scales flitted past him, and Manjoume watched them fade, dissolve into nothing. “Yes, Sho. He is.”

Sho nodded, and his attention then turned to Manjoume, as if he could confirm what Johan had said.

“But it’s not that simple,” Manjoume said, and _that_ was the truth underneath it all, the hesitation that had cut into him after those late-night conversations. It had kept him up late, not in the way that thoughts of Judai normally did. He ran a hand over his face. His thoughts clouded. “Judai, he… He has a lot to do still. He’s not himself yet. At least, he’s not back to being whole again.”

Damn. 

“Let’s talk about something else,” Manjoume said next, meaning ‘someone’ else. “I _did_ just win a tournament, and nothing Sho said earlier counts as a compliment.”

Because Johan had been running an errand for Pegasus, he had missed watching every single match, and, as far as Manjoume was concerned, he was sitting at the wrong table to avoid listening to an exhaustive summary of each one, with, obviously, several mentions of his own genius and glory included. More than a few arguments broke out over what counted as a ‘great turn’ or ‘perfect strategy’, and Johan had two irate duelists to deal with when he causally said, “Ah, you two are lucky I wasn’t there… Maybe I would’ve taken some games too!”

And because Manjoume had a plane to catch, he did not challenge Johan to a duel right there. Although, when he got up, messenger bag over his shoulder, Sho had already cleared space on the table and, as a result, drawn the interest of the room once again. “Watch out for Crystal Abundance. Empty monster zones don’t mean anything with this guy,” Manjoume said to him, and Sho, his posture reading New Kaiser but his expression all Marufuji Sho, nodded in response.

“Sounds like you’ve been reading up on me,” Johan drawled, shuffling his deck with perfect ease.

“A match with you would be a good warmup.” He shrugged, ready to walk away, but Johan stopped him with one hand.

“Ah, is that so?” Those green eyes were sharp, edged with a focus that kept him in place. The hand on his jacket sleeve was slack. “When you talk like that, there’s only one person who could be the main event.”

\---

The main event.

It felt like he was walking towards it now, his nerves mixed up with a strange, persistent anticipation. There were no stage lights in the hallway leading to his apartment, but there as well have been, the pressure enough to make him pull his tie loose with one hand. Before, it had turned his key over and over. One of two. Part of a set.

He stopped at the glossy black of his apartment door.

As it turned out, the current Japan Cup champion and rising star of the dueling world could, in fact, still be intimidated by a fucking door.

He gripped his suitcase, twirled the key one last time, and opened it.

He had expected an empty room or maybe to find the shadow of Yubel in one corner, hanging over that of Judai himself. And yet, somehow, he did _not_ expect this.

The room was full of spirits, more than he had ever seen in one place. It was a kaleidoscope of colours and textures, the shapes changing as the spirits drifted through one another, combining their forms for an instance. Flinching, he had put his hands over his ears, but as he pulled them away – eyes darting fast, sliding over the bright, moving forms – he heard only a soft rustle, like that of sheets on a line being caught by the wind. Spirits he had taken from the Reject Well passed those that were unfamiliar: a string-thin red snake darting across the ceiling, a mass of steel plates and green scales dragging itself over his couch.

“What the…?”

And _then_ colours and sounds burst in front of him, the low-attack spirits, starker and _louder_ than before, crowding in. He shoved them away, shoved them _off_ , as the unfamiliar spirits continued to linger, fainter than those that piled onto him and dodged his strikes. The unfamiliar spirits looked through him, as if he was-

“Welcome home!”

“Mr. Grand Champion!!”

“ _Meow, meow!_ ”

But Judai's greeting still parted the noise. “I need two minutes, and then we're good to go,” he said, a smile audible, but he was somewhere behind the wall of shifting scales, feathers, and claws. Manjoume shook Rescue Rabbit off his suitcase.

“Good for _what_?”

“You'll see,” was Judai's immediate reply, and he was _definitely_ smiling. Spectral Tiger nudged at Manjoume's hand, the contact slipping through as something he could only see, and the layered, moving wall made his eyes cross.

Stimuli overload.

“Just...turn it off, whatever you're doing,” he muttered finally, and there was a sharp metallic clang, like a pot being dropped. “Judai, this is-”

A switch was flipped, and they fell away. Still at his feet, his pack of spirits gave him a series of curious, worried looks.

That _sound_ , like sheets on a line, had become muffled and familiar, now the static that always followed Judai. It had been amplified just seconds ago.

He had _seen_ what Judai did.

“Sorry! I was trying something out. Didn't realize I was still, you know, projecting that,” Judai explained, waving a wooden spoon with one hand. When Manjoume tried to make his eyes focus again, he was greeted with the image of Judai wearing a green apron, a sleeveless shirt, and tight blue jeans

There were only so many emotions he could experience at once -- confusion, disorientation, fatigue, and annoyance suddenly joined by one that was entirely incompatible and _definitely_ not helpful, Judai hooking one thumb through a belt loop and leaning against the corner. As a tactician in his own right, Manjoume knew when to retreat.

He picked an easy question.

“Did you just…make me dinner?”

Somehow, Judai looked surprised as he glanced over his shoulder at the stove, as if the pan bubbling away there had appeared out of thin air. “Oh, it’s nothing special. But I know how those long flights are.” He shrugged, and the thick, rich scent drew Manjoume in, his body reminding him that he had slept through two meal services and barely touched the third.

As he sat down at the table, his suitcase and travel bag piled by the door, Judai began spooning rice into two large bowls, the rice cooker itself shoved next to his kettle and, evidently, freed from its prison in the closet. The ever-curious duel spirits floated up near the ceiling in circle, the Ojama brothers, always hungry for the spotlight, retelling his final duel against Sho and the fusion Cyber-Vehicroid deck to them, their boasting enough to make Judai chuckle as he ladled a thick, orange-red curry next to the rice.

“Like I said, it’s nothing special, so go easy on me,” Judai said as he brought the bowls over, and Manjoume found himself staring at a heaping portion of shrimp curry, the smell strong with garlic, cumin, and turmeric. The last curry Manjoume had was the instant kind that Misako had microwaved at a corner store and shoved at him as they drove to an interview, the taste bitter, almost acidic, and the rice a thick, mushy paste, bad enough that he had thrown all of it out and downed an energy drink instead.

 _This_ was something else, and the first spoonful wasn’t enough, not even _close_ , and he took his second fast enough that Judai chuckled again.

“So, apparently you’re good for something besides dueling,” Manjoume began, jabbing a grilled prawn with his spoon. Fuck, he was _starving_ , and even taunting Judai seemed like a waste of time when he _could_ be eating and tasting more of that strong, savoury flavour.

“I’m taking that a compliment,” Judai replied, and Manjoume rolled his eyes.

Because Judai had left the TV on, the Ojamas and most other low-attack spirits had congregated around it, some only millimeters away from the screen and heckled by those who were further away, Winged Kuriboh’s comments made as light purrs. In total, Manjoume had managed two portions, and Judai had refilled his bowl without a word, his attention obvious, immediate. Now, the table’s surface bare, the silence between them pushed into by the oscillating static and the chatter of near spirits, a green crescent shape hung in one of Judai’s irises, faint as if Yubel was only glancing through it. When he blinked, it vanished again.

Manjoume breathed in slowly.

“Thanks for that, Judai.”

The table jerked when Judai’s elbow slammed into it, and, even though he visibly winced, he still laughed. “W-Well, you know… It’s no big deal, really.”

“If that’s the case, then you can keep cooking for me.”

“Hmmmm…” The Ojamas had started to cheer at the tv, the other spirits joining in with squeaks, chirps, and growls, and Judai watched them for a moment, his fingers laced behind his head. “I’ll take that deal. I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“You can always say ‘no’.”

“Yeah, but…” Judai trailed off, and he leaned his chin into his palm, the angle almost low enough to hide his low smile. His apron lay in a pile on the counter, a stack of clean dishes next to it, and Manjoume refused to humour any indecision now, not when he had waited for this moment.

“Judai, I-”

“Can I start?”

And Judai continued from there, the words pouring out as his eyes slid out of focus, flickers of stark orange and green showing through like coloured discs under dark water, like the scales of something that could surface. But nothing did; Yubel did not take on their spirit form. That left only the space between them, the tenuous silence forced into the past.

“Manjoume, I like you, but my head isn’t clear yet. I’m not myself. Trust me, I want to go further than this, but there are some mistakes I’m not willing to make right now. If I hurt you, I might not…” He had paused then. Their eyes were locked. “Wait for me, please. It won’t take long. I promise that.”

At some point, his own words had left his head. At first, he only nodded, the pressure in his chest heavy.

“The promise you _should_ be making is to not rush things on your side. You don’t have to ask me to wait for you,” he said, and Judai’s eyes widened. He meant every word. He took a deep breath. “I’ve made it obvious enough, haven’t I? Even an idiot like you should be able to see it…”

Although, Manjoume was seized by the urge to kick him under the table when Judai, smiling again, stated, “Well, if I’m such an idiot, then maybe you should explain it to me.”

Because they were _still_ rivals and he had his honour to uphold even during a confession scene, Manjoume did not break eye contact. He could endure it, suppress the strange, conflicting desires he had. Look away. Look _at_ Judai. Leave the room. Kiss Judai-

Kiss Judai?!

“Manjoume, you’re blushing.”

“ _No_ , I’m _not_!” he barked, slapping a hand over his face and keeping it there while Judai made one of those low, warm chuckles that sent blood straight to his- “I really hate you,” he muttered against his palm, nails dragging through his bangs, and Judai, being _Judai_ , just kept making that sound.

Stupid Judai.

A chair creaked, and through his parted fingers, he could see Judai’s arms crossed on the table below, their golden skin bared and close: just centimeters compared to kilometers, just the length of one hand. “Ah, sorry. I shouldn’t tease you,” is what Judai said next, voice softer than before, but it was _not_ what he wanted to hear.

“You just want me to say it.”

“Say what?”

Carefully, he lowered his hand. Judai’s eyes were brown and ringed with gold.

“That I like you.” His heart raced. Something buzzed under his skin, prickled with a slow, building heat, and when Judai glanced away, he was the one who pursued. He saw the gold. “Judai, if we’re going to do this, I won’t accept just a part of you. I deserve more than that.”

“You’ve…always had a way with words,” Judai said, lips curved into a slight smile. It was slight enough that Manjoume continued, and when he leaned forward, their hands almost brushed.

Almost.

“Just focus on getting your head clear for now. You can’t even be a proper _rival_ to me without that.” And, his confidence back, Manjoume smirked. “Although, it has been awhile since we dueled…”

At those words, Yubel began to stir, their profile flickering over Judai’s. Sharp angles drew in sharper shadows, and here, like this, Judai became someone of undeniable strength, even his broken edges finding somewhere to fit in, to belong. Like whispers, the static set in, brushed against them both, and Judai, with a smirk to match his own, said, “Actually, I had something else planned for tonight. But, now that I think about it, it’s probably not a good idea.”

“You’re only making me curious.”

“Ah, I get that,” Judai added, something Yubel-like turning over his hands for a second. Scales. Lots of scales. “See, because duel spirits don’t show themselves to most people, Pegasus’s researchers have a lot of trouble trying to analyze them. Plus, there’s the whole problem of trying to convince people that they’re real in the first place.” As if drawn to him, Catnipped Kitty and Rescue Rabbit slinked under the table and settled by his feet. “Dr. Krenshaw didn’t know if it was possible at first, but I wanted to try ‘projecting’ out what _I_ could sense to other people.”

“It works, obviously.”

“Sort of,” he said, shrugging. “When I started practicing, I had an idea. I wanted to show you this one place, but if it’s too-”

“Show me.”

“Manjoume, this isn’t a challenge…”

“Well, _I’m_ not backing down.”

Judai shook his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

\---

The streetlights were on, casting orange light down on the gathered crowd, and they moved through it with knocked shoulders, ducked heads, and high collars, the cold biting this time of night.

The new NA Pro League Center rose as a massive dome in the distance, its sides sparked with rows of neon blue floodlights that banded and split the dark sky, obscured the few stars. This district was one he had driven past hundreds of times – normally with one hand scrolling down his messages and Misako’s voice in his ear, dictating some part of his schedule for that day. It, like many others, had formed on the border of the Pro League, its narrow streets lined with unofficial duel shops, schools, trading posts, and arenas, all slathered with stark advertisements and bracketed by the occasional late-night bar or fast food chain. But its biggest draw spread across the streets themselves – the late-night duel market, a maze of tables under pitched, frayed tarps with dealers taking exclusively cash or, the preferred currency, cards that could be further sold, traded, bet, or played.

Although the temperature continued to drop, more and more people spilled in around them, high school uniforms against business suits and leather jackets. And even without Judai’s sight, the spirits were already out in waves, many crouched over their owners and eyeing the others with suspicion. Many feline backs were arched. Many wings were spread as warnings. Extended, draconic claws clicked on the pavement, smoke exhaled in greying clouds, embers flaring within. Eventually, tents rising up higher and higher, even the blue floodlights were smothered.

Dodging a cart piled with off-brand duel disks, Manjoume kept behind Judai and followed him into the heart of it. A nearby vendor shouted out a fifty-percent discount on duel visors. Another echoed that bargain and then slashed it to sixty-percent.

One stall sold shirts with his face on it, and he had to physically tear Judai away from it.

“Ah, is that how you treat all of your fans?”

Manjoume kept walking. “A real fan would buy one from an official merchant, not a reseller.”

When Judai matched his stride, Winged Kuriboh shoot ahead with a squeal and burst through a close-knit group of harpies. Several glares followed the fuzz ball.

“Hmm. Good point.”

Manjoume’s disguise, simple but well-tested, was almost impossible to break under the dim lighting. If anything, his grey baseball cap, white-rimmed glasses with fake lenses, patterned scarf, white button-up shirt, faded tan blazer, light jeans, and immaculate white sneakers made him look like a tall, gangly version of Sho – essentially a version of Sho that _finally_ hit his growth spurt. Before they had left the apartment, he had applied a few finishing touches: he had rubbed off the ever-present smudges of eyeliner, shoved the bulk of his hair under his hat, and switched out his custom deck holster for a generic one that wasn’t embossed with thunder bolts and lined with metal studs.

Of course he still brought his deck, just in case a dimensional rift opened and he had to save the day. Or something. It _could_ happen.

“You had somewhere in mind, right?”

“Almost there,” Judai said, glancing over his shoulder (when had he gone in front again?).

Two parallel tears marked the back of his worn grey jacket, thin enough that they were barely visible, curving like shadows would. They extended down his shoulder blades, and maybe Manjoume was staring too hard, making it _too_ obvious for once, because Judai then fell back again, his expression almost hesitant. Almost.

“So… When we try this out, tell me to stop if it’s too much for you.” Before he could interrupt, which he was _about_ to, Judai quickly added, “Again, I’m not trying to push you. This isn’t a duel, Manjoume.”

“Believe me, you’ll hear me if I want you to stop,” was what he responded with, and Judai’s face twitched.

Around them, the narrow pathways had begun to widen, and the streams of people spilled into a brick plaza and spreading around its makeshift holo-arenas, every square centimeter of their sides slathered with overlapping, fraying posters for local events, local heroes announced with a fervour that almost made him jealous.

Here, the floodlights from the stadium showed through again, but they were pale compared to the flurry of pixelated explosions, dragons rising up and turning their claws on multi-armed beasts, on monstrous knights with gleaming broadswords. Massive talons and heavy weapons batted at cute puff balls like Marshmallon and Scapegoat, and there was something electric, almost intoxicating, about all of it, rare monsters unfurling to massive cheers and urgent whispers, some in the crowd throwing out bids.

“This is it?”

“The best place in the city,” Judai said, rocking back on his heels, and that hesitation showed itself again. “But, I mean, it’s still going to _be_ here if you want to try again later or-”

“Do it.”

“Alright. Here we go…” And then Judai took a step to the side, their arms brushing, and Manjoume flinched at the sudden contact. In the near-dark, people continued to move around them, duels continued to draw in cheers, but he still heard it when Judai hummed to himself, his smile turning. “Okay, let’s see if I can reach only you…”

He understood the problem, and the solution was an obvious one. He moved closer, standing in front of Judai with only a sliver of space between them. Because of his low baseball cap, he had to turn his head to the side, and Judai had already shut his eyes, but he knew that, up close, they were golden brown. “Try not to scare any innocent bystanders,” he mumbled, and Judai just smiled wider.

“That should do it.”

He looked up.

The spirits extended up so high that they blotted out the dark sky, spreading out like massive fireworks that wreathed the streets below. A few spirits drifted between those in the sky and in the arenas, forming thin, faded shapes like wisps of smoke, like the kind that filled the air as the final fireworks of a summer festival burst open, and, staggering, Manjoume turned around. More fireworks, their colours shifting as spirits moved and merged with one another, fading as they dropped back down into the arenas and let the colours there pool, grow so intense that he had to look away.

“Hey, should I-?”

“No, don’t,” he whispered. Focusing on the bricks below, the _one_ patch of ground that wasn’t crawling with something scaled or feathered, he breathed in slowly.

He had grabbed Judai’s shoulder at some point.

“Not all of these spirits have cards,” he said as he lifted his head, a massive beast stepping through the cluster of highschool students at the nearest stall. “Judai, what you’re seeing is…on a different level than our world, our reality.”

“You make it sound so serious,” Judai answered, and Manjoume kept his hand where it was, as if that would keep the connection open, keep the spirits flowing past him as blurs of muddled colours and textures. “I think this could be the space between our world and the spirit world, somewhere that the spirits can wait in.” Judai chuckled then, close enough that he felt it. “It’s still pretty confusing, but it looks nice, doesn’t it?”

“Nice?” he repeated, and he tilted his head back again. Those spirits he could see on his own were opaque and dashed the strange, elongated shapes overhead with their stark colours. The blurred underside pulsed with too many spirits to count, to _comprehend_. Maybe his eyes had finally adjusted. Maybe the energy of the arena had started to affect him. Now, breathing in the cold air, watching another firework-shape form and split, he had to agree with Judai.

It was like a festival from another world, one they could only watch through a pane of glass.

“I haven’t showed this to anyone else,” Judai said, and he almost missed the meaning there, two red dragons spiraling overheard and then diving into the crowd. “So far, I’ve helped Dr. Krenshaw and Winged Kuriboh exchange greetings, and…that’s about it! Seeing these things, it’s difficult for others.”

“Not all of us have a demonic soulmate and a Supreme King persona to fall back on,” Manjoume snapped back, and that made Judai chuckle again, his smile wide enough to show his signature dimples.

“True, but I knew that if anyone could do it, it would be the one and only Manjoume Thun-!”

Sure, Manjoume was dizzy from whatever the _fuck_ was going on and distracted by the Man-Eater Bug sauntering past with a Petite Angel on its back, but he still had more common sense than Judai did. Maybe slapping a hand over Judai’s mouth was excessive, his eyes bulging, but it _did_ also work.

“How much of an idiot are you?!”

“S-Sorry!”

Manjoume leaned back and crossed his arms. “Look, I know that critical thinking isn’t _exactly_ your specialty, but can you try a little harder?”

“Ah, don’t say that…”

“Although, you _were_ right to trust me,” he added. “There’s no challenge you can give that I can’t conquer.”

Judai scratched his forehead. “It wasn’t supposed to be a challenge.”

As if a dial was slowly turned, the distant spirits became to fade, taking the bright reds, oranges, and greens from the sky, returning it to night. Blinking, he took in the familiar crowd and the duel spirits that intersected them, Penguin Soldier awkwardly shuffling past him and squeaking a warning at Winged Kuriboh. One of the Ojamas had settled in his scarf, Yellow by the sound of his unsteady snoring. And, for a moment that seemed too long, he missed it – the vision that Judai had given to him.

“Now I know what it’s like to be Yuki Judai.”

“Hmmm. Sort of,” he said. “You don’t have the full experience yet. There are Yubel’s jokes, for one thing.”

Although Manjoume was morbidly curious to know what sense of humor Yubel – once the sadistic overlord of his dimensional prison and now, according to Judai, the late-night master of his leather recliner – had developed over the years, that was a conversation for another day. And he had been ready to go back through the market, maybe get a duel or two out of Judai where there was less of a crowd, but Judai had stopped him without words, just a strange, glazed expression. The night had driven in a strong cold.

They stayed by one of the arenas, Snowman Eater taking out a fusion monster to a scattered applause, while Judai stared at nothing, one eye gathering orange, the other pale green. And then he blinked, that expression dropping, and said, “There’s something else I want to show you.”

\---

One taxi later, and they were back in the apartment. Judai, throwing off his jacket, made for the living room couch, and Manjoume followed him there. Yubel’s shadow dragged across the floor.

It took awhile, but eventually Judai shared his vision again and then amplified it. Some of the spirits were from either of their main decks or the stacks of extra cards in Manjoume’s safe. Some were unknown, untethered spirits that shifted through the apartment, careless of where they were.

Some were the strays whose abandoned cards Judai had gathered, and slowly, concentration marking his face, he introduced each one to Manjoume. Most cards were official but torn, one taped down the middle, and others were homemade, crude portraits scrawled in crayon or faded pencil. “The new cards for these guys should be printed soon,” Judai explained, fanning out the mismatched cards and then shuffling them. A nervous habit. An obvious one. “Once that’s done, they should be strong enough to go out on their own. You’re ready for that day, aren’t you?” he added, winking at a turtle with a sundial-like pole jutting out of its shell. A two-headed bird cawed its approval from across the room.

And, sure, _most_ of Manjoume’s experience with duel spirits centered around Ojamas – stupid little creatures prone to tripping over their own feet and crying at predictable twists in romantic comedies –  but even he could tell these spirits, although too weak to raise themselves from their cards without Judai, had energy growing inside of them.

They also loved Judai.

Of course they did.

“But, there’s still the spirits I’m keeping inside my head,” Judai added, and Yubel, now a dark overlay over Judai’s face, seemed to bristle at the mention of them, as if that very mention would somehow endanger them. “Bringing them out is hard for all of us, so I’ll just go over their cards for now.”

The pile was slimmer than it had been before, back when Bell’s card had topped it. Judai’s descriptions were, again, measured and slow, his eyebrows creasing and his head tilting repeatedly like he trying to sort through multiple ongoing different conversations, which, knowing Judai, he was. “If they’re in their cards for too long, they start to fade. Reversing that is important, and I can do it as many times as I need to,” Judai said, quickly. “But, still, they don’t deserve lives like that.”

“There are some responsibilities that are worth bearing, but, Judai, if there’s another way, then it’s what you should do.” At his words, the beasts around Judai had started to squawk and chirp. Manjoume ignored them. “Not only for their sake, but your own as well.”

“Yeah, I get it. Trust me,” Judai said, and that bird spirit let out a soft coo, its dual heads brushing his arm. “You’ve met Dr. Sullivan, right? He thinks that placing these card with spiritually sensitive duelists will help them adjust.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

Judai’s harsh laugh surprised him. “There’s nothing reasonable about giving them to strangers.”

“Yubel, I didn’t ask for _your_ opinion.”

“You’ve got both of us right now,” Judai replied, and Manjoume rolled his eyes. Great, two against one. “Look, try to see it from my perspective, _our_ perspective. These spirits have to be protected above all else, and I will _not-_ ”

“Do you have any Ojamas?”

It took Judai awhile to process that, his face twitching. “Do I…what?”

“I’m a spiritually sensitive duelist who likes new cards. Give me one. Hell, I’ll take two if their effects are any good.”

He held Judai’s stare, Yubel’s bright eyes drilling into his own.

“Are…you serious?”

Manjoume snorted. “Who said the duelists have to be strangers? Fujiwara works for an university in Domino City and specializes in duel ecology or…sociology. Something like that.” He waved a hand. “Whatever. Point is, he would probably take one. There’s also Johan, Edo…”

He did not look away, and eventually Yubel gave in, their features folding into Judai’s.

“I need to think about that,” was what Judai said, which, in Manjoume’s opinion, was a weak answer. Then again, it _also_ wasn’t a ‘no’.

Gradually, the blurred spirits faded into obscurity, and when Manjoume, blinking, took in the change, he realized that the room was empty. Even Yubel’s tell-tale shadows and ripples had vanished, leaving only himself, Judai, and the roughly thirty centimeters of space between them on his modern black sectional.

“Your dark circles are worse than mine. That’s impressive.” He almost made Judai laugh, which meant that he wasn’t done yet. Throwing his bangs back, he continued with, “Of course, those only suit famous individuals like myself. They add a certain _mystique_.”

“A certain what?”

“Mystery, Judai. It means mystery.”

“Is…this your way of telling me to get more sleep?”

“Yes.”

Then Judai laughed, and the sound suited this place, this hour that dragged after their time in the plaza, spirits coiled around them and extending up into a starlight sky. His thoughts turned back to the cold air, to the way Judai’s face had brightened as he watched the many spirits drift overhead.

“It was beautiful,” he said then, Judai glancing over with wide, brown eyes and something like curiosity, something Manjoume could understand. “Seeing those spirits in the plaza.”

 As expected, Judai’s comeback was immediate. “So, I’m good for cooking, dueling, and putting on a show.”

“More than I’d expect from a Slifer Red.”

“You were a Slifer Red too.”

“I,” he began, standing for effect, “have erased that part of my history.”

“Wait, isn’t Manjoume Thunder supposed to…? Ah, what’d that announcer say? ‘He wears the sins of his past on his sleeves and-’”

“Are you lecturing _me_ on my own persona?!”

“Although, now that I think about it, the only thing on your sleeves is probably soy sauce…”

Damn it.

The argument lasted until two in the morning, the Ojama brothers finally bursting out of their cards in matching pajama sets and cursing at them for the noise, but by the end of it, he was bone tired and Judai had started yawning into his hand.

But Judai still got the last word as he threw back his head and gave Manjoume another one of those wide, bright smiles, the kind that made his heart beat high and fast.

“Hey, that advice you gave me earlier… I think I’m going to take it.”

“You should,” he said, and he watched as Judai rolled his shoulders back and stood up from the low couch.

“Goodnight, Manjoume.”

And alone in his room, he fell onto his bed and almost passed out, something familiar pulling him awake again and again. But, eventually, seconds splitting into minutes, into hours, his thoughts turned back to the plaza, to looking up at an incomprehensible sky through the eyes of someone else.

\---


	11. The Duel

\---

Someone was outside his room.

That thought circled and circled inside his head until, throwing his hand out for his phone, which had to be _somewhere_ , it clicked that he was in his apartment, in own bed, and that he had a roommate now, one who apparently liked to bang pots and talk to himself in the kitchen at 7:13 a.m.

Typical Judai.

With well-practiced ease, he flung himself out of bed, showered, and threw on some clean-ish clothes. Next would be the usual task of sorting through his messages, at least ten from Misako crowding his inbox already. Apparently Sho wanted something too. And there were the usual requests from his sponsors, agency members, fan club administrators, and the random people who _somehow_ found his email.

Being popular meant that he did a lot of typing.

Pieces were already moving in his upcoming duel with Edo, _definitely_ a grudge match at this point, and, closing his belt with one hand, he scrolled down a massive list of program appearances Misako had already approved and scheduled. Their times clustered around the month leading up to the duel itself. Prime time specials. Exclusive radio interviews. Filming for a retrospective on his career.  

There would be a ‘leak’ in approximately three weeks, coincidentally just before he would start a radio interview with GB Pro Duel Speciality and Edo would glide onto the stage of yet-another televised charity event. Eight days after that, they would have a ‘surprise’ encounter outside the Duel Today studios, leading to a scripted exchange that would _probably_ come off heated, maybe more than they intended it to.

 

 **Misako / Thunder** **⚡** **Talent Management [07:15]: btw u hv a fitting on the 23rd, London Studio**

 **Misako / Thunder** **⚡** **Talent Management [07:15]: new stage outfit**

 **Misako / Thunder** **⚡** **Talent Management [07:15]: not a request fyi**

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [07:15]: whats wrong with my clothes??**

 **Misako / Thunder** **⚡** **Talent Management [07:15]: theres a difference btween ‘distressed’ aand ‘falling apart’**

 

“Whatever you say,” he muttered, swiping to one of her attachments while he opened the door and made for the kitchen, and the strong smell of _food_ jolted him awake, as did the full cup of coffee slammed on the counter in front of him.

“You take sugar?”

“Uh. Sure.”

“Coming right up,” Judai said with a wink, and Manjoume almost went back to his room on principle, fresh eggs and coffee be damned. Yuki Judai in a sleeveless shirt, ripped jeans, and that fucking apron ( _how_ had that gotten into his apartment?) was currently in the process of rewiring his brain, and it only got worse when Judai leaned his elbows on the counter, his bare shoulders corded with muscle, and asked, “So, did you get some sleep?”

“Enough, I guess,” he muttered, fixing his stare on the cup. “What do you think of that futon?”

“Ha! It’s a lot better than sleeping on the ground, although I don’t really care too much either way,” Judai admitted, and Manjoume dared to drink the coffee at the wrong time, because Judai then added, “I’m pretty flexible, you know.”

It was pretty much impossible to choke on coffee in a dignified manner, and Manjoume, pushing one hand against his throat, did _not_ achieve that, not even close. “I-I’m s-sure you are,” he managed to say, ignoring Judai’s puzzled look and that urge to put his head down and just give up, declare the day _over_ at 7:21 a.m and go back to bed. The winding laughter he could barely hear _had_ to be from Yubel, a barbed shadow casting itself behind Judai, and he was _almost_ relieved when they slowly drawled, “Judai, darling, you’re going to burn it.”

While Judai rescued his omelette, folding it in one smooth motion, Manjoume took a seat at the table and tried to read through yet-another script he had to learn. Dueling Edo Phoenix, as it turned out, had a great deal of preparation involved, and he wasn’t surprised to find a new of contracts already in his inbox, these detailing the exclusive broadcasting standards for their duel.

The ‘avoid crude language’ clause would be especially difficult, since there were _few_ duelists who could get under his skin like Edo did.

One of them just happened to be in the process of serving him a cheese and red pepper omelette,

And, sure, it was delicious, probably the best damn thing he’d ever eaten, but a part of him had already snapped back into his professional mode, his cards demanding his attention, divided as it was. He drummed his fingers on the table, back again to that imbalance in his deck still, like a knot in a string already tightened to its breaking point.

“When are you going to work?”

Judai had to think about it, his fork hanging out of his mouth. “Nine, maybe.”

“More than enough time for a rematch,” Manjoume declared, and he shoved his plate to the side, his deck already in his hands and spreading over the emptied space. A few adjustments were needed. Another trap card. Swap out a few spells. If anything, he needed more monster cards, but options were limited. He threw in Snowman Eater, aware that Judai had started to clear his own side of the table.

“So, is there anything I should do as your coach?” Judai asked, shuffling his deck once and setting it in place. No adjustments needed. _Great_. “I could throw out some inspirational quotes, like… Uh. ‘Hang in there!’ Or… ‘You can do it, Thunder!’”

“You just need to duel me, that’s all,” Manjoume said, putting his deck down. Damn, he thought. That imbalance was still there, maybe even _worse_ than before, but he could compensate for it.

Probably.

Judai went first, and that turn was almost too simple, Bubbleman’s card hitting the table and a single facedown going behind it. Judai looked at his two drawn cards, shrugged, and then ended his turn. There were no holograms, cameras, members of his fanclub or the press, or searing stage lights. The half-full cup of coffee by his elbow had been made by Judai, and carefully he drew his first card, Ojama Black wiggling in the portrait and flashing a victory sign.

It was too early to count on that.

“Something up?”

His fingers darted over his few monster cards, two Ojamas missing. “Do you always have to make small talk during your duels?”

“You’re frowning a lot, that’s all.”

“I’m _thinking_ , Judai. You should try it sometime.”

“Ouch.”

Manjoume kept the pace as slow as he could – Judai making his own turns with perfect ease, each card sliding through his parted fingers before he played it – but when he _somehow_ managed to counter Flare Scarab’s summon and _then_ flip Snowman Eater on Elemental Hero Neos, his hand started to pour itself out onto the table. With Ojama Country, he took the first of Judai’s life points, Snowman Eater in attack position, and then followed through with Ojama Black, the spirit strutting over and giving Judai a thumbs-down.

“I end my turn,” he said, and it was unlikely that his monsters would last very long. That field spell was also a prime target, but he could compensate for its loss, bring it back from the graveyard. But, then again, this was _Judai_.

“Manjoume, you’re really trying to take me out, aren’t you?” was what Judai drawled next, and when Manjoume looked up from his hand, he could see the change that had taken place. Stark colours had pierced Judai’s irises, and the hand he drew with shifted under phantom scales, their edges blurred like ink lines slashed with water, like those of claws that parted dark water. But the smile was all Judai, all bright light, and it turned the darkness that had gathered in his eyes into something else, something that made him shiver without realizing it, _suppressing_ it. “You’ve gotten a lot stronger, and I think this duel is really getting to me…”

“Consulting with your demonic soulmate is cheating, by the way,” Manjoume said, sorting through his hand again. He meant that, and Judai let out a low chuckle.

“Yubel’s just spectating. Is that okay?”

“As long as they’re not picking your cards for you,” he stated, and Judai responded by wiping out his side of the field – the field spell pulled away to the shrieks of Ojama Black, already the target of a declared attack.

It went through, and he slid the card over to his graveyard. “I’ll get him back for this,” Manjoume swore, the little spirit nodding vigorously, and then, his eyes snapping up, he interrupted Judai’s next move, an over-eager one that ignored the cards still in his hand. “I pay 1,000 life points to special summon Green Baboon with 2,600 attack points.” And that stopped it, Wildheart still with an attack for the current turn. Two facedowns hit the table. Wildheart moved to defense position.

Judai’s stare raked over him, and it ignited something in his blood.

From there, he cleaved into his own life points and went after Judai’s with everything he had, his counters immediate, his sentences breaking into one another as he gave out the explanations that were almost natural to him, the nervous ticks of a pro duelist that Judai waited through with absolute patience, the shadow of Yubel behind the low smirk that sharpened his features.

Judai watched only him, met the attacks of no one else.

Another combo dragged his next turn out even more, and he wanted the focus Judai gave to him then, he _kept_ it with every revealed card, every perfect counter. And, greedy, he wanted more, blood pounding hard inside his head.

But staying on that knife’s edge could be dangerous, and Judai, controlled on the surface, brought him closer and closer to falling.

Until it happened.

Manjoume watched the direct attack from Grand Neos go through, and his loss was an obvious one, nothing to dispute. But he made it happen again, their second duel another loss for him. The third was the same, but he went for a fourth, his taunts only darkening that smirk Judai had, every barb drawing out more of him.

“One more,” Manjoume ground out, eyes flashing. “You’re not going to run away _now_ , are you?”

“Hey, hey. _You’re_ the one always telling me to be responsible,” Judai said, and when he stood up, Manjoume did too, almost on reflex, almost knocking his chair over. Of course Judai was right, and of _course_ Judai had to leave, but-

Fuck that.

But then Judai put a hand on his arm, and it felt like more than that, like shifting closer to a different edge.

“Believe me, Manjoume, this is hard for me too. But…think of it this way. I’ll be back in a few hours, we can order some pizza, maybe pick up where we left off… How’s that sound?”

And hours later, his deck list spread across the coffee table as he played through duel after duel of the Destiny Heroes and their famous controller, a conference call with Misako buzzing in the background, the Ojamas rolling across the floor and whining about the sunbathing they were missing out on, Manjoume realized what it sounded like.

It sounded like a date.

\---

But maybe the Ojamas _did_ have a point.

Four days into his ‘vacation,’ and he had slept even less than he normally did, one of Edo’s matches always spread across the tv, and his conference calls with Misako extended late into the night, sometimes crackling in the background as Judai, humming to himself, won duel after duel, the difference between them thinning with each card played but still present, still _there_.

“You should take a break,” had become a standard phrase for Judai, one that always made him roll his eyes. And, in ways that he never saw coming, Judai _somehow_ managed to drag him out of the apartment every day, the destinations always meaningless, pointless, just thin excuses. Sometimes they visited Ojama Country, and in those moments – Bell chirping in a quick staccato that Judai quietly nodded along to – the hours seemed to melt away.

“Losing to Edo won’t end things for me. I’m not afraid of the results,” he explained while Bell shuffled in place, a red-white spotted bandana around her middle, and Judai gave her a thumbs-up of approval. “But, Judai, if I’m going to pursue the dream that I have, I won’t except any excuses from myself. If I fail, then I will fail as a version of myself who can still rise again. That’s…” He broke off then, and the sky over the village was already streaked with red-orange, the town square empty, its lanterns waiting to be lit.

Cross-legged on the ground, Judai threw his head back. “Maybe it’s just me, but when I’m stuck on a problem, the answer usually shows up when I’m doing something else. Like, when I’m in the shower or picking out what to eat. You know the feeling, right?”

“It’s unpredictable at _best_ , and I won’t rely on it,” he stated, and Bell, waddling over to him, bobbed side-to-side like a metronome. Someone had double-knotted her bandana for her.

“You’re going to hit your limit before the duel even starts,” Judai said next, and he shared a quick look with Bell, more chirps sounding. One messenger Ojama made its made down the tiers of houses, a bulging mail bag bringing it closer and closer to the ground with each hurried flap of its wings.

“I haven’t hit it yet, but...” That was a bad answer, enough to make him concede. “Fine. We can try it your way.”

“Sweet! I got tomorrow off, so let’s go…to the beach! Or, wait. Maybe it’ll be too cold.” Drumming his fingers on the ground, Judai put on a look of concentration, his forehead creasing from the effort. “Hey, Asuka’s university isn’t too far from here, is it? I’ve heard they have some crazy decks on display, plus I wanted to ask her something.” At Manjoume’s raised eyebrow, he added with a wink, “Don’t worry, Thunder. It’s about duel monsters, nothing else.”

“Why…would I worry about _that_?”

Judai shrugged. “Although, now that I think about it, you’re the one who was always asking her out.”

For Bell’s sake, he did not curse at her beloved owner. “First of all,” he began, his face twitching, “I have immense respect for Tenjouin-kun as a duelist and a professional working to inspire others, much like myself. Second, I have apologized to her for my past behaviour, as I was completely out of line. And third, if I still had those feelings for her, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.”

“Woah, slow down,” Judai said, and Bell tipped over to babble something in his ear. “Okay, I was out of line. Sorry about that.” At Bell’s next chirp, a ‘yes’, Judai sighed. “You’re getting pretty protective of him, aren’t you?”

And Bell only kept chirping, her little paws raising in turn as she bobbed up and down. Drawn to the noise, some of the Ojamas had crept out of their houses, and the first lanterns were clumsily lit, Red climbing onto Blue’s shoulders and shoving a match into each one. Cool orange light spilled over the dirt plaza and lighted the contours of Bell’s cracked shell.

The scabs had healed, finally.

“Her thesis defense is in the spring,” Manjoume stated, and he ignored Yellow’s shrill question of, ‘What’s a thee-ish?’ with a well-practiced sigh. “She might have time for us, but I don’t know what her class schedule is. To make matters more complicated, she’s the head of the campus Duel Club and the chair of the Fair Duel committee.”

“Sounds like she could use a day off too,” Judai observed, and he waved at the Ojamas who sauntered by, a few in sleeping caps and cradling worn mugs of dandelion root tea. Green, a bit of a maverick, had thrown an entire dandelion weed into his mug, dirt and all. Manjoume continued.

“The fact is that I’ll text her, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

\---

“Kinda surprising that works so well.”

Judai was referring to his disguise, the same as before except for a thicker scarf. “My own manager tried to have security throw me out a backstage area once,” he said, shaking his head at the memory. “It’s all in the silhouette, Judai.”

“Sil-o-what?”

“Never mind.”

Rendered in classical motifs and arched columns, the iconic foundation building of the university loomed over a brutalist maze of department buildings, laboratories, dormitories, and isolated plateaus, the center of it all emptied out to form a massive rectangular plaza that, the last time Manjoume had visited, had been covered in posters of Yugi Moto as part of a retrospective exhibit.

Concrete tiers rose on all sides of the plaza, used as stairs by some and seats by others, many students with their books pushed to the side and cards in their hands. Suspended from concrete beams, bright posters rippled in the slight wind, and he caught the title of a tournament presented by the Duel Club, its logo of Mystical Elf cradling a white orb that crackled with lightening. And, morbidly curious, he had Judai project out his sight for a moment. Streams of spirits spread through the cracks in the gathered crowd, many strange, rare monsters showing themselves and then drifting away, drifting until their lines and scales blended into nothingness. A frenzied, chaotic energy moved them, different from the spectacle of the market but still drawing his gaze and holding it.

And yet, they had a meeting to keep.

“You can stop now,” he said, and when the faded colours all fell, they left behind a plaza defined by its empty space, its _emptied_ space. At his side, Judai tilted his head and shoved his hands in the pockets of his grey bomber jacket, the high collar zipped under his chin.

As Manjoume lowered the hand he had rammed against his forehead, the impact of seeing _that_ a sore ache, Judai made a comment he did not expect. “Think I’ll do the same. I mean, I’m getting stressed out the more I look at it.”

“Hold on. What do you mean by that?” Like an overgrown golden retriever, Judai just blinked at him and tilted his head. With a heavy sigh, Manjoume asked, “Can you stop seeing the spirit world by choice?”

“Yeah, like I’m turning one of those dimmer switches,” Judai explained, and he followed Manjoume out of the plaza, the coffee shop chosen by Asuka near the education department buildings and, in her words, quiet enough for an actual conversation. “Most of the time, I’m looking at the world like you would, but sometimes I push the switch further than that, showing the spirits we saw just now.” At Judai’s pause, Manjoume glanced over, and a small frown marked Judai’s handsome face. “But, honestly, I can’t remember the last time I turned it off all the way. There’s no reason to, is there?”

“I would pay for the privilege of not seeing the Ojamas for one day,” Manjoume said, and Ojama Yellow, who had been sitting on his shoulder for the past hour, swinging his bare feet and dripping snot everywhere, made a pout ugly enough to prove his point.

The first time he had visited Asuka, he had gotten lost to an embarrassing degree in the dark stairwells and narrow hallways that banded the right side of the university, and without the help of a bored teaching assistant from the archaeology department, he would have probably missed out on meeting her that day. Turning right at a packed lecture hall, he led Judai up another flight of stairs, across a two-story walkway, and into a small coffee shop perched on one rigid concrete corner, its walls textured concrete slashed with bright red paint and embossed with jagged wooden panels. It also, if memory served, had an excellent caffé latte, and as he shoved Judai over to Asuka’s corner table, he asked, “Tenjouin-kun, you want anything?”

“Oh, I’m starving! Can you-”

“Is _your_ name Tenjouin?”

Judai deflated. “W-Well, no…”

“I’ll take an Earl Grey tea with milk, if you’re still offering,” Asuka replied, tucking a pen behind her ear. “Oh, and a…turkey sandwich?”

“Turkey wrap,” Judai corrected, and then they burst out laughing, Manjoume trying to keep a scowl on his face. He failed.

With their table set with saucers, plates, utensils, and Asuka’s many notebooks, it was easy to fall into a conversation, the months he had been away from Asuka insignificant compared to the friendship they shared. Judai had last seen her three years ago on the sidelines of an exhibition duel for Sho, but it wasn’t long until he made her laugh again, a bright, airy sound, and Asuka then responded with something that had Judai choking on his black coffee and Manjoume clutching at his ribs, Ojama Yellow’s high-pitched giggles underlying it all.

“So, you’re not a fan of that organizer?”

Asuka wrinkled her nose. “Let’s just say that next time I’ll send the invitations myself. Although, it wasn’t a complete disaster like my brother’s wedding.”

Manjoume steadied the table while Judai yelped, “W-What?! Fubuki’s _married_?”

“Technically, yes. Although,” Asuka added after a long sip of her tea, “only ten of the guests had the right venue, not including the bride’s parents. None of the food made it. Like I said, a disaster.”

Judai, infamous for showing up in random places at random times, had the audacity to say, “Still, an invitation would’ve been nice,” and Asuka just laughed again.

“I had one made for you. Unfortunately, it was one of the many things that didn’t make it in time.”

“Don’t worry about it, Judai,” Manjoume said, driving a fork through his lemon scone. “I didn’t get to the wedding either, and _I_ was in the wedding party.” He even had a new suit fitted for it, one that, short on cash at the time, he had then used for interviews and the occasional tense meeting with his original management agency, the lining of the jacket pale blue and stitched with the couple’s initials near the collar.

Asuka wore a dress shirt in the same colour. The lanyard around her neck bore the school’s initials and was weighted by keys engraved with ‘D CLUB – PRES’ in block letters. The spines of her notebooks had split into thin, white ridges, and when she gestured across the table, Judai ready to interrupt, he could see the pen ink smudging her palm. Blue suited her more than any other colour, and he still loved her in it. He still loved _her_ , but not in that stupid, headstrong way.

Under the table, Judai knocked one foot against his leg. “Oi, Thunder. No comeback to that?”

He blinked. He put his cup down. “Comeback to what?”

Dropping his voice to a whisper and grinning with barely restrained enthusiasm, Judai leaned closer and said something that would have made a sixteen-year-old version of himself combust on the spot.

“Asuka is a _fan_ of yours!”

“Apparently that’s something Judai and I have in common,” she observed, and that same sixteen-year-old Manjoume, desperate for _any_ attention from his obvious crush and his buried-so-deep-that-he-could-pretend-it-didn’t-exist crush, would have burned to the ground.

In the present, he just raised an eyebrow, pushed Judai’s foot away with his own, and replied with, “You don’t have to state the obvious. I’m popular for a reason.” At Ojama Yellow’s squeak of approval, Judai rolled his eyes and grinned even wider, and when their eyes met, he thought of the late-duels in his apartment, maybe even _their_ apartment by now, and the subtle orange-green flicker of Yubel.

If he tried to describe it, his love life probably would probably sound like a fucking mess, and the girl-turned-woman that he had written an embarrassing number of embarrassing sonnets for (rhyming, he had quickly discovered, was not his strength) then brushed back her shoulder-length hair and said, “I think you’ve gained a few new fans in our Duel Club too. We streamed your match against the New Kaiser, and, well, your chant is pretty difficult to resist. I’m surprised no one called campus security about the noise!”

“Plus, there’s his stage presence,” Judai added through a mouthful of his wrap, one pointed finger bobbing with each word. “Oh! And those cool one-liners he throws out. Like, ‘Act tough while you still can,’ and, ‘Don’t smile like that when you’re losing’.”

Manjoume sighed. “Those are things I’ve said to _you_. Judai, really, you are the only duelist I know who could enjoy being insulted like that.”

“Guess I’m special then.” And Judai, being _Judai_ , winked at him.

Stupid Judai.

“Are you two…?”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Asuka said, and she turned to Judai, who now had a piece of lettuce on his face and kept missing it, flicking his fingers at thin air. “So, there was something you wanted to ask me about? I’m happy to help in any way that I can.”

“Uh, yeah.” Taking a macro approach, Judai ran one hand over his whole face, and Manjoume snorted. Typical. “I wanted to ask you if- Hey, what’s _that_?”

Over a set of low, flat roofs, an edge of the central plaza showed itself, and Judai, standing up by the window, gestured at the massive, rippling poster of Meteor Dragon being hauled across it, the pieces of a lighting rig following. Then, a series of dollies covered with electrical wires. Next was the unmistakable white square of a holoprojector.

“Tenjouin-kun,” Manjoume began, an eyebrow raised, “is your tournament today?”

“I see that they’ve started to move the equipment in early.”

“You’re putting on a tournament?” Judai sat back down and immediately launched into another question, a curl of Yubel’s shadow showing through. “Asuka, are you going to duel?”

After taking a long sip of her tea, she pushed it away and laced her fingers together. “Traditionally, the end of term tournament for the Duel Club features an exhibition duel between the club president or another high-ranking member and a staff representative, but we haven’t been so lucky with volunteers this time. I’m sure a solution will present itself, and,” she said in a voice strong enough to cut off both of them, half of Judai’s challenge already out of his mouth, “now I would like to return to Judai’s question, as that is the reason you wanted to see me today.”

“Asuka, if it’s a duel you’re-”

“Originally, I had planned to mention the tournament after our meeting, as I would have to oversee the preparations from that point. And, yes, if either of you want to help, then I will be happy to accept. However,” she said, addressing Manjoume with a knowing look, “please consider your own situations first, as the last thing I want is for this to cause any unnecessary stress. Is that understood?”

Judai gave her a sharp nod, and Manjoume watched the exchange that followed with obvious interest, a creased piece of cardboard paper being slid across the table as Judai, expression drawing in slanted shadows, asked her about the drawing on the front. To Manjoume, it was a collection of spirals and circles that framed a human-like face, the proportions all wrong, but Asuka stared at it with a sudden intensity, her lips set in a hard, straight line.

“Where…did you find this?”

“A campsite in Denmark, on the coast,” Judai explained, and he moved quickly, sliding his thumb across the crude name plate. “You’ve seen this, haven’t you?” Empty, those precious characters missing, but the attack and defense were there, as was a single line of flavour text that, beaten by rain, had smudged into nothingness. “Asuka, what do you think is in the portrait?”

“It’s a Cyber Girl,” she said. The cardboard held nothing, the spirit it suggested safe inside Judai’s head, but Asuka remained fixated by it, her expression turning in a way that he hadn’t seen in years, one sharp with anger. “What happened? It feels like… Judai, _who_ did this?”

Her deck radiated with a power that Manjoume could feel without focusing on it, the Cyber Angels extending out from it like thorns.

And Judai did explain further, his story the one Manjoume had already heard but with its details embossed, drawn out in ways that made Asuka’s frown deeper, as if the spirit hunters that had chased down that defenseless, half-formed spirit were there in the room with them. “She’s like a blur to me,” Judai said, running a hand through his hair, “but she has this stage mask that reminds me of your Cyber Prima, and the more I focus on it, the more I wonder if this spirit is meant to be with you.”

“Where is she?”

“It’s complicated, but-”

“Judai,” Asuka ground out, eyes hard.

The summary Judai gave of his spirit powers was short but accurate, the few knowing looks he gave Manjoume watched carefully by Asuka and met with her silence. He reiterated Dr. Sullivan’s theory, that placing the injured spirits with sensitive duelists would save them, and then he added to it, Yubel’s scales curved like fallen petals over his raised knuckles. “But he’s missing something important, and the more I watch how duelists interact with their monsters, the more I understand how that bond supports them both. Sure, it can be invisible, but that doesn’t _mean_ anything. And, Asuka, right now a part of me is screaming out that there is no one else for this spirit but you.”

When Manjoume put one hand on his shoulder, Judai leaned in it, his eyes sliding shut. Manjoume’s throat was tight, and he could not keep his expression blank and emptied of what he felt then.

“Tenjouin-ku… No, Tenjouin,” he began, aware of how Judai’s shoulders rolled back, of how his own fingers parted and pressed in harder like a reminder that he was still there. He continued. “Make no mistake. What Judai’s asking you to do will be difficult. This spirit has been through more than any of us can know.”

“I understand,” Asuka said, and she slowly turned the brittle card, a trace of a smile forming, “but, to tell you the truth, I’ve already made up my mind.”

“It might not work,” he added, and Judai tensed. “You will have to be prepared for that.”

“Again, I understand, but I’m still doing it.”

He held her stare.

He let his hand fall from Judai’s shoulder.

And he let Judai take it under the table, their palms sliding together, and the contact made it obvious for the hundredth, the _thousandth_ time who his foolish heart was set on – a man with a cracked soul, a set of scars, and a kindness that extended down through them like something bright, something that turned brilliant in the light.

\---

What happened next was also extremely obvious.

As Asuka told them over another round of drinks, a scheduling conflict had forced the Duel Club to host its term-end tournament just before the start of final exams at the university, and, reflected in the frenzied state of the duel spirits he could see, the students and staff alike were in a panic, one that would carve holes in the expected audience for that day.

“These are the top eight from our inter-club tournament,” she said, stirring her tea absently, “and I believe that watching them work hard will inspire others. I’m sure that some people will still think that hosting an event like this a waste of time, but all I want is a chance to change their minds. I want people to stop and watch for even just a few seconds.”

“I mean, it doesn’t get flashier than Manjoume Thunder,” Judai commented with a smirk, and Ojama Yellow whooped in agreement. Winged Kuriboh ruffled his feathers and puffed his chest out, which _probably_ meant the same thing.

“You don’t have to persuade me, Judai.”

“Sure, but it’s still fun to try.”

Manjoume did not spit out of his extra-strong coffee, but he _did_ register the confused look Asuka gave them both, like they were variables in an equation fitting together in some strange way.

When Misako’s text came in, it was with the approval that he had expected from her, the only stipulation being that he should not duel in public that day, as the marketing team still needed to push his victory over Sho. Judai, being Judai, complained for no reason, and Asuka, being a reasonable human being, adapted in seconds, her pen twirling between her fingers as she laid out her plan.

Two hours later, a thin crowd had gathered by the holoprojectors that spanned the central plaza, a raised stage at one end. Judai, now a substitute for a missing referee, took up one corner of a small maintenance tent, the master audio control desk balanced precariously behind him, and flipped through the ban list Asuka had approved earlier. In the opposite corner, Manjoume adjusted the cuffs on the all-black suit his agency’s North American branch had sent by express carrier, the jacket’s sleeves too tight but acceptable overall. The eyeliner was Asuka’s.

“Nervous?”

“Why would I be?” he asked, and outside the loudspeaker boomed with a count, the opening ceremony closing in. A few words from the chancellor and then Asuka would hit the left stage. He would follow at her signal, and his anticipation curled as the crowd gathered, rows of faces visible through a gap in the tent. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve done this before.”

“Yeah, but today was about getting you to relax, so…”

“Judai, don’t worry.” He smiled wide enough to show teeth, and Judai leaned back against the desk, his interest clear. “Believe it or not, I enjoy doing this.”

Because they were alone, his words sounded different, _felt_ different, and the loudspeaker started to relay the chancellor’s stiff, formal speech, a noise that broke through the roll of Judai’s low chuckle. Half-lidded, his stare cut through the near-dark, and if they had been _really_ alone, somewhere with actual walls and without that constant, piercing static, then maybe Manjoume would have stepped closer, taken those shoulders under his hands, and parted Judai’s lips with his tongue.

Or maybe not, although just the thought was distracting enough, Judai’s jacket open and showing the long lines of his bared neck, his collarbone rising over the low collar of his tight black shirt. “Believe it or not, I like that suit on you, but I’m not sure about the tie,” Judai stated as his eyes dropped and then raked over him, the pressure enough to make Manjoume’s next breath catch.

Asuka’s prepared speech was drawing to its close, and Manjoume threw his shoulders back and let Judai watch him adjust his tie, the knot slipping around his spread fingers. “Well, if that’s the case, Judai,” he replied, a razor-thin smirk winding up his face, making it almost cruel, “then this next hour will be hard for you.”

“Ah, don’t worry. I can take it,” Judai said, and at the signal, Manjoume pivoted on his heel and threw the tent open, took the stairs at his left, and turned towards the crowd from the raised stage. When Asuka held out the microphone, he took it.

He took the crowd next.

“President Tenjouin, I can do my own introduction, as I _am_ the one-” Breaking off, he held out his hand, and the effect was immediate, the crowd stunned into silence.

And then the answer came.

“Ten!”

“One-hundred!”

And, as he threw his arm up, the next line thundered around him.

\---


	12. Closer, Cross

\---

The tournament began to deafening applause, and after he passed the microphone to the lead announcer, he took his place at the judge’s table with a flare of his coat and a final gesture, the crowd surging again and Asuka, seated at his right, grinning into her hand.

From the scraps of information he had gathered that day from club members and event organizers, Asuka herself had an impressive reputation on campus, her public duels limited but always delivering final, divisive blows to her opponents. As far as he was concerned, her command of ritual monsters was unrivaled and more than enough to overwhelm even a seasoned member of the Pro League.

The first duel showed her influence, although the summoned Hungry Burger was _far_ less elegant than any of her Cyber Angels.

But that duel became intense as cards were revealed, the counters immediate and, when they went through, drawing gasps from the nearing crowd, more and more students piling onto the concrete steps and taking up positions by the stage. On reflex, he found himself going for that microphone again, half-standing with one foot on the floor and the other on his chair, and dictating the importance of each moved, the parries stunning and fast. The lead announcer Asuka had chosen – a third-year who, judging from his off-hand comments, specialized in deck destruction – picked up quickly, and soon they had formed a rapport that worked with the crowd, made them reel and gasp with perfect precision.

By one of the projectors, he could see Judai, a referee tag around his neck and his white teeth flashing when he laughed.

But, because a play involving Mystic Tomato and Mystic Space Typhoon almost made him lose his voice, Manjoume did, unfortunately, have to pass the mic along, and he downed a bottle of water while Asuka said something he had expected from her.

“I’ve decided on who I’m going to challenge for the exhibition duel.”

“Sorry, but I’m off limits,” he replied, and Asuka tilted her head.

“I already knew that, Manjoume.” In the gap between matches, the radio clipped to her blue blazer was silent. The receiver was off. “Maybe it’s a painful memory for you as well, but do you remember the dreams we saw in the Darkness?” She had propped her chin up on her hands. “It almost feels like we’ve began to overcome those dreams, all of us from Duel Academia. Until I saw you and Judai today, I didn’t realize how far we’d come and how much further there still is to go. But that future is exciting, isn’t it?”

“More than anything,” he said.

She nodded at him.

In the round of four, the sudden play of Inferno Tempest silenced everyone except the lead announcer who yelled out the play-by-play as two active duel disks whirled, sorting out monster characters and sealing the fate of one challenger. Molten shards and trails of pixelated ash dashed the concrete below, and the boom from that sudden impact had drawn in an even larger crowd, the windows and roofs of the buildings that bracketed the plaza covered with eager faces and cameras held high, their lenses catching the light.

Between matches, Asuka had explained her strategy for the Duel Club, and it involved pairing together duelists with similar abilities, game knowledges, and tournament experiences for weekly practice sessions, each overseen by a senior member of the club. The results, now strewn across the blackened concrete, were rivalries that strengthened each individual duelist and pushed them to their limits, made them surpass those same limits.

Playing a spell that required taking 3,000 or more battle damage from a single attack was a risk, one Manjoume had taken many times.

“Tenjouin, what you’ve done here is incredible,” he said, and her Cyber Angels flickered in his vision as a maze of gilded edges. “Although, I _should_ get some credit for making Inferno Tempest cool in the first place.”

His copy had been retrieved from the peaks around North Academy, and Asuka, staring into space for a moment, replied with, “Hm, but I haven’t been you use it in a very long time.”

“Maybe I’ll change that. I can’t have some amateur upstaging me with my own card.”

Asuka, knowing what he meant, laughed at that. “Well then, our club’s managed to inspire the great Manjoume Thunder!”

The finals were between Asuka’s protegee – Mariella, a third-year undergraduate student with a fiend-type deck and the ace Masked Beast – and her rival – Reiji, that second-year undergraduate student with a golem-heavy deck and the devastating Inferno Tempest card. By default, Manjoume had to support the rival, and somehow he ended up with the microphone again, Asuka taking over for the exhausted lead announcer and parrying each sentence of his with perfect ease. The plaza had the feel of a stadium, the pressure like an electricity that sparked in the air.

It made him want to duel Judai.

The finals were tense within a few turns, Witch of the Black Forest leading to Ritual Raven and then, faster than expected, to The Masked Beast itself, the chimera unfolding in dark waves and staggering to its feet. No meteor hit when it attacked directly, Inferno Tempest still waiting in the deck, but Reiji still clawed back, held on as attack after attack connected.

In the end, it was close: 200 to 300 life points.

When the dust cleared, Mariella took the first step back, in disbelief that her last, desperate attack had gone through, and she burst into tears at the sound of her name, that of the first-place winner. And, automatically, like it had been a reflex, Reiji pulled her into a hug, his headset mic turned up and missing what he said next as the crowd chanted, loud enough that the ground seemed to shake.

Asuka had put her handheld mic down at her side, and she did not cry, but the blurred Cyber Tutu behind her did. The Ojama brothers, who could not be called masters of emotional sensitivity, were batted away by Cyber Prima.

“Today has been a success, hasn’t it?” Asuka whispered to herself, and she continued in a stronger voice. “To show my gratitude to my students and friends, I have to give it the strongest ending that I can.”

“Just know that if you take him out, you’ve got me to deal with next.”

She smiled, honest.

“I’m ready for that, Manjoume.”

The awards ceremony swept across the plaza, and already he could hear the crowd speculate on the exhibition duel, Asuka’s name mentioned in hurried whispers and with clear reverence. In the fitted white dress she had changed into, a golden commemorative pin at her collar, she appeared like the angel that many called her – the Duel Angel, the Angelic Duelist. Her fan-like custom duel disk had unfolded itself, its blunt edges tinged with gold.

After she had presented the trophies and thanked their sponsors for a second time, she turned to him again.

“No matter what, I’m committed to the Cyber Girl spirit that Judai has rescued. But, still, it’s undeniable that a part of me wants to have a different conversation with him, one that will challenge us both.” Something ethereal flickered across her face, its forked mask like that of Benten. “That’s what I hope this duel between us will be.”

When she strode to the center of the emptied plaza, a silence followed her every step.

She raised the microphone slowly.

“Traditionally, this exhibition duel would be between a senior member of the Duel Club and a staff representative. However, it will be different this time.” A slight pause, her gaze casting over the wide crowd. “I hope this duel will honour the members of the Duel Club who we have cheered on today, and I also hope that it will inspire some members of the audience to follow their own dreams.” Another pause, and this time she fixated on one person by the sidelines, a referee badge around his neck. “Although, this duel is also rather selfish on my part. It gives me an opportunity to face a strong opponent, someone I have never defeated, and… That opportunity,” she concluded, flexing her free hand as her duel disk whirled, “is something I will take now.”

At the judge’s table, Manjoume watched alongside the tournament challengers and its winner, their focus absolute and their whispers hurried, reverent. “Who could be stronger than President Tenjouin?” Mariella muttered, ignoring the fact that she was currently seated next to Manjoume Thunder. She clutched a massive bouquet, her gilded trophy on the table, and a strange, lingering darkness clung to her, indicative of the fiends waiting in her deck.

It did not compare to the shadows that trailed Judai, spreading out like demonic wings.

“Maybe someone from the Pro League or…? Oh! Got it,” Reiji declared as he rocked back on his chair. The rivals made an interesting pair: Reiji a towering, muscle-bound figure with shocking red hair and arms covered in intricate tattoos; and Mariella a thin girl with massive, doll-like eyes and long painted nails. “It’s gotta be you, Thunder.”

“No, you’re wrong,” Mariella interjected, and Manjoume raised an eyebrow at her, curious. “I mean no disrespect, but you have not reacted to President Tenjouin's speech. From this, we can conclude that you know who it’s for already, and that person is not you.”

Reiji scoffed. “No way. You got _all_ of that from-”

“Shh! President Tenjouin is speaking!” she blurted out, and Manjoume looked back at the stage. Asuka’s arm lowered.

The spotlight snapped onto the crowd, and Asuka made her challenge.

“Yuki Judai, I challenge you to a duel.”

\---

It had been a long time since he had seen Judai at one end of a duel arena.

The noise from the restless crowd increased, questions thrown out and answered in whispers or yells, and Manjoume, arms crossed, watched Judai adjust his headset and power on a default-mode duel disk. At the opposite end, Asuka waited with her gilded duel disk extended like a weapon.

“Yuki Judai?! Are we supposed to know this guy?”

“So…he’s not a pro…but he’s defeated _Asuka_? No way!”

“Must’ve got lucky.”

Mariella, an adamant defender of all things Tenjouin Asuka, cut into the conversation of the staff members behind her, the flowers she held squeezing together and losing a few petals. “What disrespect. Do you _really_ believe that President Tenjouin would waste her challenge on someone unworthy of her?”

“I think what Mari’s trying to say,” Reiji added, his open expression not matching his glare, “is to hold tight and just watch the duel.”

While Manjoume was not an adamant defender of all things Yuki Judai, since that idiot could take care of himself _most_ of the time, he did have something to add.

“This won’t be one-sided. I can guarantee that.”

Instantly he had the attention of every stage hand, club member, human being, and duel spirit within a five-meter radius, which turned out to be a surprisingly large amount. He shrugged.  

It was only the truth.

“Yuki Judai. Not a known member or affiliate of the Pro League. No challenger-level matches within the past five years.” Static crackled in the loudspeaker, and then the lead announcer continued. “However, he did graduate from Duel Academia in the same year as Tenjouin Asuka and…Manjoume Ju- Manjoume Thunder.”

The whispers increased, and they _would_ only increase from that point, maybe develop into yells or cheers. Given the order of information, the lead announcer had to be scrolling through the official All Duelists database maintained by a subsidiary of Industrial Illusions, which _meant_ that the next headings would be ‘Exhibition Duels’ and then ‘All Televised Duels’.

Sliding his legs off the table, Manjoume strode over to the announcer’s desk and signalled for a microphone. He would need it.

“No exhibition duels recorded either.” Well, _obviously_. While Manjoume straightened his tie, the lead announcer reached the next section and promptly knocked over his chair. “T-This is major! As a second-year student, Yuki Judai is recorded as having defeated M-Manjoume Thunder in a televised duel! A-And as a third-year, he did it again, toppling the great Manj-! I mean, Oja…manjoume…?”

“Make no mistake,” Manjoume began, addressing the crowd at large. “ _I_ have changed since then, becoming the person you see now. But the fact remains that Judai is a strong opponent, and President Tenjouin’s choice should not be taken lightly.”

Questions were shouted at him from all angles, and he brushed them off with a wave of his hand.

Of course, some moron had already given Judai a headset.

“Hey, I’m not going to say ‘no’ to some compliments, especially coming from you.” Judai, the duelist closest to the stage, glanced over his shoulder with a wide smirk, and Manjoume, knowing this conversation could result in many messages and memos from his agency, let out a deep sigh. No flirting, he decided. Absolutely no flirting.

“In a situation like this,” he ground out, one hand on his hip, “it’s wise to focus on your _opponent_.”

“Oh, right. Guess I should take the advice of the great Manjoume Thunder.” With a shrug, Judai turned around, but his expression stayed with Manjoume – all narrowed eyes and white teeth, some edged like Yubel’s fangs. And his words stayed there too, the ones given so easily when they were close in the maintenance tent, Judai’s eyes dragging up his chest.

Questions still came in from the crowd, screamed to get over the low, constant thrum of voices, and he ignored them still, the answers slipping away faster than they should have. The panels of Judai’s borrowed duel disk snapped into place.

The duel could have begun like that, but then Judai lowered his duel disk, his head tilted to the side. “Asuka, the last time we dueled was different than this. Do you remember that pairs’ tournament?”

Everything Judai said only made the crowd more chaotic, their questions louder and more insistent. Asuka, clicking one black heel against the concrete, replied simply. “Yes, I remember.”

“Maybe this will sound strange, but I like the current setup a lot better,” Judai said as he secured his deck.

Like every jacket that Judai owned, this one had tears running down the back of it, breaking the smooth lines of the collar. Two parallel marks ran down his shoulder blades, and Manjoume had an idea of what they meant, the location like that of Yubel’s wings. There were old scars underneath.

And some conversations, he knew, did not need words, and that’s how Asuka answered Judai. A flick of her wrist. The lighting of her own duel disk.

The draw of her first card.

\---

With just a few cards placed, the clash between Cyber Angels and Neo-Spacians began, the pixelated damage effects shadowed by the attacks of the spirits themselves, the flares of cascading ice and fire. Ojama Yellow, a coward by nature, had retreated into Manjoume’s suit pocket like an ugly pocket square and wailed as a form of commentary, his hands tugging on his thin antennae like a nervous human spectator would their hair.

The actual announcer fared a little better, managing to relay card names and effects, but he also trembled enough to knock over his microphone more than once, as if the bursts from Dark Neos’s wings could actually hit him. But, still, seconds passing, the tension continued to rise, soaring above that of any previous match that day, and, as counters were played, soaring higher still.

The boom of Asuka’s voice as she revealed another counter trap brought in the loudest cheers yet, and, breathing hard, she declared Dark Neos as its target, banishing the monster with a flick of her hand. Next was a direct attack on Judai, and when Etoile Cyber struck, her elbow sinking through him, every tick of Judai’s decreasing life points drew in even more cheers, a chant of Asuka’s name rising up through them.

“Tough crowd,” he said, staggering to his feet, and Asuka answered his grin with one of her own. “Then again, losing a few life points will just make my comeback even better… You ready for the turn, Asuka?”

“I’d like to see you try.”

And Judai immediately emptied his hand.

No other duelist attacked the way Judai did, shifting through his cards with absolute precision, the kind gained through a familiarity that could not be just human, that reached into the very souls of his monsters. And watching it made Manjoume’s own hands itch. His fingers tapped out nonsensical rhythms on the table, their motions faster when Air Neos hit the field, red feathers scattering with the sudden wind. Its shrill cry pierced his ears, loud enough that the duelists and spirits next to him cowered.

He did not.

Within Neo Space, Judai’s power only grew, and waves of stark, overlapping colours circled the duelists caught within it, distant stars captured as small points of light. Galaxies swirled overhead and dashed across the darkening sky.

But Asuka parried, her counters revealed in quick succession. And, for Manjoume, staring at Judai’s turned back, the outcome hung on the end of a thin, fraying thread.

Two more turns, and then it fell.

Shocked gaps sounded as Asuka defended the first attack, but the second went through.

\---

Meeting in the center of the arena, Asuka and Judai shook hands and, much to the confusion of her earnest supporters, burst out laughing. After flicking up her headset microphone, Asuka reached out and did the same with Judai’s, whatever she said next making him laugh even harder. The fading remnants of Neo Space still marked the stage, and the lights over them changed from green to red, some orange tracing the sharp angles of Judai’s profile.

The leader announcer, beyond hoarse at this point, managed to lead the crowd through the typical cheers, Judai throwing out a wide wave at the sound of his name and Asuka bowing at her own.

And, watching them at that moment, something clicked into place.

\---

“We’re dueling.”

“…Uh, sure?” Judai replied as he threw his jacket on the coffee table, Manjoume’s already hooked over one chair. “Although, I think I used up all my cool phrases earlier today…”

“As if you had any to begin with,” Manjoume mumbled to himself, and the deck he declared was the same as last night, which had netted a grand total of thirteen straight losses.

Pulling out the opposite chair and spreading his own deck over the dining table, Judai nodded and then shuffled it. Some of the electricity from the tournament had followed them back to the apartment: as if thousand-fold gasps and cheers could follow every action, match with every counter; as if the city lights cutting across the grey-black sky could be the flashes of camera lenses.

“Although,” Manjoume added, arching an eyebrow, “I doubt that a slacker like you has the stamina for this. Two high-pressure duels in one day… Perhaps I should let you off easy this time.”

“Hey, hey. Don’t worry about me,” Judai said. The scars from the electro-shock collar had faded, almost invisible against his tan skin and over the knotted lines of his throat, and the look Judai gave him felt like a challenge, one that he met with an early attack and fast, perfect counters. And when it happened, he just stared down in disbelief.

Shield and Sword. Ojama King.

Judai’s life points were at zero, the last hundred struck off.

“Alright, you’re giving me another try at that,” Judai said, already shuffling his deck, but Manjoume did not respond. He checked the notepad that he kept their scores on, a solid ‘1’ penciled in for him. At some point, Judai had doodled the Ojamas around his name, their little hands waving custom ‘GO THUNDER’ flags. He had fucking done it.

 _He_ had done it.

“You’re…not going to pass out, are you?”

Scowling, Manjoume snapped, “Did you just forget who you’re talking to?! If you’re giving me another chance at victory, then _of course_ I’ll take it. Only a fool would miss out on that.”

But his cards did slip through his fingers when he tried to shuffle them, some falling back onto the table and turning over. This was a victory that had taken countless hours. It had followed the countless defeats that he had to climb over, the regrets always difficult to take, to bear like the weights that they were. And, even if it hurt to admit it, the low ranks of the Pro League had almost broken him completely – the endless stream of knock-out duels in shadowed tournaments, the brutal schedules that had made him faint and lose track of time, of _everything_. The exhaustion had been a constant, burrowing into his mind, blurring together the colours of the cards he had held with shaking, jittering hands.

But one thought had kept him going.

“I won’t fall behind anyone,” he muttered, and Judai tilted his head. “Not Sho, not Asuka, not Johan… Not you.”

“You’ve always been intense, but, still, I don’t think I’ve felt anything like _that_ before,” Judai admitted, laying his deck down with a cryptic grin, like one that would fit Yubel’s knife-sharp features better. “Show me it again.”

Some static clung to those words, but he could ignore it.

He wanted to.

“You _will_ lose, Judai,” he drawled, leaning back and shuffling his cards, their angles more than familiar by now. “I’ve figured you out, but, if you want to know that it wasn’t luck, I’ll show you another victory.”

“Scary…but let’s see where this goes!”

That duel ended even faster, Ojama King hitting the field and, when Judai couldn’t knock it out in one turn, Ojama Knight joining it next, sealing all five of his opponent’s monster zones. Ojama lockdown, and Manjoume twirled the pencil once before adding another digit to his victory column.

“So, I’m now done with my warmup,” Judai announced, and Manjoume let out a low chuckle, aware that those light-hearted words did not match what Judai _really_ felt, the intensity that showed through his angled smirk. Like chainmail, rounded scales clung to his knuckles and continued up his wrists, shimmering in and out of sight. Without looking away, Judai dropped a few cards into his holster, the replacements coming after a short pause, his short-nailed fingers tapping the table. “Although, if I’m being honest,” Judai said, leering, “the most exciting part is that your deck isn’t even finished yet. It’s like mine, some cards still out of place.”

“It’s still enough to beat you,” Manjoume replied, letting it hit the table. A declaration of intent.

But no one attacked like Judai did – those fusion monsters spilling onto the field, cleaving through Manjoume’s thick line of defenses, and countering his attempts at a recovery, at the comeback that he was always one move _away_ from. If nothing else, the duel had inspired him to petition for Grand Mole to be added to every ban list in existence, as if _that_ could keep the little fluffball away from his monsters for one damn turn.

Something in the air shifted when Yubel was played for the first time, staying in it like the sharp smell before a summer storm, and Neos Wiseman followed the next turn – serpentine claws flickering for an instance, Yubel’s incisors passing over Judai’s straight white teeth. And Manjoume countered with everything he had, cutting into his own life points, taking the risks that he _wanted_ to take. The Ojama brothers, exhausted, fell into his graveyard, and when he ordered them out again, Green pulled Yellow into position by his feet, Black trailing with heavy yawns and almost walking off the table. Seconds later, and a trap card from Judai forced them back in, Green lowering a sleeping mask over his mono-eye and Yellow using Black’s stomach as a pillow.

But Manjoume was wide awake. An electricity sparked across his skin.

Judai’s next attack struck harder. He took it.

He matched it.

Victories followed his victories, more thin markers added to that creased piece of paper. The Elemental Hero Neos that Judai had drawn by his own name looked like a tadpole, and, even though the Ojama brothers were a slumbering pile in the corner, Manjoume continued, pushing harder. After ten duels, Judai broke his streak, his knowing look like a new challenge, and Manjoume took it _back_ after another three. He yanked his tie loose with one hand, the other clawing around his spread cards. He forced them closer and then back into his deck. Outside, the sun had started to climb over the high-rises and sloped stadiums.

“We should stop here,” is what he said next, a taunting whisper. “Judging by that last move, it seems Slifer’s ace has finally lost his nerve. Maybe I’ll give you another chance later, if you ask nicely.”

“Hey, _I’m_ still ready to go. But, if you want to stop, then let’s stop.”

Judai leaned back with a knowing look. His bare arms caught the early light, drawing it between visible, shifting muscles, and maybe Manjoume was more than just curious, his eyes snapping up and meeting Judai’s hard stare. The all-black suit jacket was over the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and pulling at his tie had opened his collar, Judai’s interest obvious and more than enough to fuck with his head.

When he stood up, the chair scraping back, Judai stayed where he was.

Imagining it was too fucking easy.

“I’m not sharing our first kiss with a bunch of freeloading spirits,” Manjoume said, his voice _somehow_ even as Judai grinned wider and tilted his head back.

“So, you only think about kissing me after beating me at a card game? That’s good to know!”

“You stupid…” Manjoume sighed, and then he laughed, Judai’s expectant look too much.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The updates will slow down a bit from here, as I'm running into the chapters that I'm still working on.  
> Let me know what you think! And, as always, thanks for reading!


	13. Another Draw

\---

Judai was not his first roommate, human or otherwise.

At North Academy, the students would have to fill the assembly hall when the fuel reserves were low, the cold wind hissing outside and blowing against the rafters, sending out rhythmic, metallic clangs that droned long into the nights. Any sick students had priority, their sleeping rolls closest to the massive heaters, and the cold slabs of the stone flooring sucked in whatever warmth escaped, like ice against bare feet, bare hands. For those nights, Manjoume had followed the others and piled any spare clothing over himself, the hall around him covered with mounds of jackets, pants, and shirts, and anyone who spoke did so as a whisper, their shivers shaking the quiet words.

While the Slifer dormitory hadn't had the cold to contend with, it had let in the rain, seeping in through the patched-over roof. Sometimes they had been left in the ground-floor dining area, the tables cleared off as makeshift beds. Sometimes they gathered outside, the tents salvaged from around the island or borrowed from the Ra maintenance room, the lock easy to slide open.

Sho had been his first constant roommate, and their arrangement had started after Manjoume's first agency had dropped him, leaving his bank account drained and his determination stoked, as if this rejection was some precursor to greatness. The apartment had been outside Domino City, that epicentre of famous duelists and low-entry duel clubs, and, considering that none of its three rooms had caved in, it had served its purpose well enough. Although, the specks of mold had been somewhat troubling. The broken water heater had been a more pressing issue, the shock of cold water every morning enough to remind him of the bizarre “rituals” at North Academy, like swimming five meters under the ice to “prove one's worth” or some bullshit like that. As if _that_ had anything to do with playing card games.

When their schedules did line up, Manjoume had to endure the humming, the shower singing, and the nitpicking from Sho about his “habits”, such as leaving dishes in the sink or forgetting to take out the garbage. Or forgetting to do his laundry for a couple of weeks.

It ended suddenly – Ryo's health declined again and Sho moved back to help with his rehabilitation. The first building Manjoume ended up in was a massive rectangle with rows on rows of thin windows, a dormitory for low-ranked members of the Pro League. The random arguments in the hallways he could take, but the constant, impersonal silence was more than enough to make him miss the way Sho would take up their entire living slash dining slash kitchen room and watch variety shows on the highest possible volume, some bag of chips or crackers crackling with every boyish laugh.

By the time Ryo had recovered and Sho returned to the Pro League, Manjoume lived mostly in hostels, low-rent complexes, and the occasional hotel, _sometimes_ scraping together enough money for one with a few stars. He had even spent a confusing week in Asuka’s dormitory, taking up the couch in the front room while her two roommates were on vacation and he surged through the preliminaries of some local tournament. When she had shoved a mug of strong coffee at him, flopped onto the other side of the cramped couch, and swung her bare legs over a stack of textbooks, her gym shorts riding up with the motion, Manjoume had realized that if there was a moment to fall back in love with her, then _that_ was it.

But nothing happened. They had just watched Duel Network, ordered some greasy food, and he had passed out while Asuka studied, the tap-tap-tap of her pen against her book jerking him awake every few minutes. His love for her had changed, and even Fubuki then stopped trying to set them on dates, turning his attention to “other lost souls in the sea of love”.

Considering the competition, Judai was _probably_ the best roommate he had ever had.

For one thing, Judai could cook damn well, most nights a stir fry or pasta that Manjoume would inevitably eat two or three portions of, the seafood curry _still_ his favourite but with some heavy competition. And eating with Judai was too fucking easy, Manjoume shoving his elbows on the table as he rambled about an upcoming match, annoying television program, or changes to the game’s meta, new decks and builds coming in with every professional season. Judai answered with stories about his travels, the dangerous parts always told with a low, slanting smirk and enough hand gestures to draw in the low-attack spirits, to keep Manjoume perfectly still, transfixed. Sometimes the food went cold. Sometimes he let hours pass like that, their cards hitting the table after.

Sometimes he even won.

The distance between them had grown thin, and, if he could brush off the low pulses of that static, then it felt even thinner than that, like something he could cross without a second thought.

Judai would tease him for watching programs about himself, standing behind where Manjoume was on the couch and throwing his arms over the back of it, sometimes resting his chin on the top of Manjoume’s head. “I can barely see the screen over your hair,” Judai had said one time, Manjoume missing what the announcer had just shouted. “Kinda surprised you haven’t changed it up, but, then again, the long bangs suit you.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” was what Manjoume had replied with, and that night had continued with Judai sprawled over the other side of the couch, one leg thrown over the arm rest. For someone who, in his spare time, liked to watch television, eat whatever was in the fridge, and ramble about card games, Judai was unfairly muscular, his broad chest drawing the thin fabric of his t-shirts tight, some with low collars. One morning, Manjoume had almost bought a ridiculous number of extra-large men’s sweaters online, as if hurling them at Judai would be a viable strategy for not hurling himself at Judai.

Judai was probably also the worst roommate Manjoume had ever had, given that he was too fucking hot and, _worse_ than that, used those dimpled smiles and long, searching looks to his advantage. When Judai scolded him for leaving tea bags in the sink and staining it with circular marks, Manjoume, much to his immediate horror, just stood there and nodded along, completing ignoring the fact that this was _his_ apartment and it didn’t matter was his own damn sink looked like. Judai had reorganized the drawers in the kitchen, leaving Manjoume blinking at their contents in every morning, the spoons never where he had left them and the sugar always on a higher shelf, as if Yubel, playing some prank, had wanted to emphasize their height difference.

One morning, Judai had taken one of his scarves, a grey one with vertical stripes.

The day before his flight to Tokyo, Judai strode through the front door with that scarf on, tied around his neck in a clumsy knot, and a plastic grocery bag swaying at his side. Winged Kuriboh spun in circles by the ceiling, the fairy and bird spirits following it with their shrill cheers while the Ojama brothers, engrossed in the episode of Love Duel Island that Manjoume had put on to distract them, shushed the procession. “Tonight, it’s grilled mackerel,” Judai said, letting the bag hit the counter as he yanked his coat off, the scarf going with it. “Oh, and remind me to dig out my passport later.”

Manjoume arched an eyebrow, and, ignoring the cries from the Ojama brothers, muted the episode. “Going somewhere?”

“Yeah, I guess. Should only take a few days,” Judai replied, shrugging as he sorted the vegetables. A leek. A bundle of green onions. “I met this duelist in Australia awhile ago, I think...two years? Maybe more than that?” Balling up the plastic bag, Judai paused, rocking back on his heels. “Anyways, he had a plant deck, and those cards really liked him. Because so many low-level ones crawled over him, I thought he was a tree at first!”

“You have that…vine-y...plant…thing,” Manjoume added from the couch, frowning in concentration as he sorted through Judai's rescued spirits. There were still so many. “So, that's your plan? Just show up in Australia and hope you run into some random guy?”

“Not _exactly_ ,” Judai said with a sudden wink, oil going in the hot pan. At some point, he had tied that green apron around his tapered waist, and Manjoume stared at the ceiling instead, Winged Kuriboh making another pass. “I gave O’Brien a call, and he's given me some pointers for tracking people down. I don't think it'll be too hard. I mean, getting him to take Sprout could be a problem but...we'll see. I could probably solve it with a duel.”

“Not everyone thinks like you do, Judai,” Manjoume mumbled, the Ojama brothers bouncing on his chest, the commercials almost over. “If that doesn't work, I might know some pros who could take it. Just ask me.”

“Hey, come here.”

He frowned at the ceiling. “Uh. Why?”

“Just do it, okay?” Judai – who was a fucking _adult_ and should not sound like that – whined at him, and, cursing himself, Manjoume glanced down. Judai waved a paring knife at him, which, considering the folded edges of Yubel hovering behind him, was a _little_ intimidating.

“Uhhh… Judai?”

“If you want to eat, then you have to work for it,” Judai said sagely, the second wink entirely out of place.

“That rule hasn't applied before,” Manjoume replied, his look skeptical. The Ojama brothers had escalated their efforts, tiny transparent hands and feet shoving close to his face. He ignored them, and Judai gave him a pleased smile, familiar from their repeat duels when Judai would flip a trap card, his dimples set in two matching curves.

“Well, it's a special occasion this time,” Judai began, twirling a longer knife once and then directing it through the first fish. “The last time you left, I didn't say anything or do anything. That's kind of rude, isn't it?” He snapped his wrist to the side and then placed one half in the pan, unblinking. The oil crackled. “Maybe I'm just insecure, but I _think_ I need the help of the great Manjoume Thunder to make a proper send-off dinner.”

“More like insincere,” Manjoume grumbled as Judai chuckled, but he still pulled himself off the couch, rolled up his sleeves, and took the paring knife with the same skeptical look

He had almost taken the skin off his knuckles the last time he tried to cut an onion, and Judai plunked down a cutting board with, of _course_ , a neat row of green onions.

He managed to keep all of his fingers, although Judai had taken over at some point, his large, calloused fingers directing Manjoume's in a proper grip around the handle, although, for one very obvious fucking reason, Manjoume had missed every single word about finger placement. Judai had been a solid pressure at his back, there at the edges of his shoulders, and the whisper of static wasn't enough to shatter that feeling, Judai's low, rolling chuckles by his ear. The hot oil crackled somewhere behind them, the fatty, rich smell of grilled fish spreading through the air.

“Ah, but you're almost done, so don't worry about it,” Judai said, his fingers drifting over Manjoume's raised knuckles and brushing against his wrist. “Tonight I picked something fast and easy, but we can try something more complicated later. I've been told that I'm a good teacher, if you can believe it.”

“You have to be doing this on purpose,” Manjoume mumbled, and when Judai tilted his head, something he _felt_ rather than saw, he quickly added, “Also, if Marufuji Sho was the one to give you that compliment, it doesn't count. He'd also say that you're a great artist.”

“Ouch… Point taken!” Judai declared, taking a step back and adjusting the stove, and Manjoume frowned at the weird claw formation his hand had ended up in. While Judai plated the fish, finished the side dishes, and spooned out the rice, Manjoume hacked away at the remainder of those slippery stalks, the result a pile of uneven little circles.

Judai only teased him about it once, a stupid grin on his face. “So, guess I've found a weakness of the great Manjoume Thunder! Maybe I'll have to start playing a food-themed deck, since there might be some good counters for you.”

Had Judai's salty grilled mackerel been anything but perfect, Manjoume would have done more than just glare at him from across the table and make a warning tap on Judai's knee with his right foot. “You should say my title with more respect than that,” he added, chewing slowly. “Don’t forget who won our last duel.”

“Right, right…”

But, like always, after awhile Judai started to pick at his food, his eyes distant, shapes flitting behind his dark pupils like quick fish in shallow, fast-moving river water. Yubel showed as a purple-grey blur, their scales passing over Judai in controlled, rhythmic gestures. And Manjoume, never one to waste food, worked at his rice and the remainder of his fish, the uneven bits of green onion scattered across one plate.

When Judai leaned forward and said something, he almost flinched, the quiet, fragile words anything but normal, anything but simple. “It's getting a little easier. Seeing Bell adjust to her new life has helped them calm down. The fear, it's...not as strong as it used to be.” Judai paused, his chin on his palm. “If I'm honest, I think I'm the one still holding them back. Yubel says I'm overprotective, which means a lot coming from a half-dragon, doesn't it?”

“It's who you are, unfortunately,” Manjoume said, and when he added that last word, Judai smiled a little, something about it sad.

Damn it.

In Ojama Country, Bell took her own small steps, sometimes managing to teeter up a few stairs by herself or walk alone through the forest bordering the village, her little shell disappearing behind the stalks of mushroom trees and massive leaves. When Judai talked about his work, the ‘rehabilitation’ of those injured spirits, it was always with a wince. “I mean, I love these guys, all of them,” Judai stated, and Manjoume met his stare, those phantom shapes shifting again, peering out at him. “This process, it seems too fast, like I’m _trying_ to force them out into the world for my own sake.”

“Judai, why don’t you try listening to them? Just… Okay, look, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about duel spirits, it’s that they usually know what they want, even if it’s annoying or difficult to take or…whatever.” He threw out one hand, almost sending the soy sauce off the table. Whatever. “They’re capable of making their own damn decisions, so let them.”

Sighing, Judai leaned his elbow against the table more, his bangs swaying forward. “You’re probably right, although saying that might do weird things to your ego.”

“What ego?”

“Ah, Manjoume…” The scars from the shock collar and bracers were gone, but Manjoume remembered where they had been, the edges mottled with a raw red at first, healing over to a coiled grey-white. “You should push me away if it’s too much,” he said, and Manjoume, reeling from the sudden ice that had coursed through his system, tried to say ten different things at once, sputtering like an _idiot_ while Judai continued in the same quiet way. “I…really do rely on you.”

“So what?” he snapped, unthinking. “Did you seriously forget that _you’re_ the one I’ve confessed to? Don’t make me laugh.” Raking a hand through his hair, he walked into the kitchen, pivoted on his heel, and then continued, aware that he was close to yelling. “Judai, I swear… You’re so dense sometimes.”

When he sat back down, his arms crossed, Judai poked at his fish again, the pieces probably cold. Slowly, carefully, the shadow hanging over Judai passed, and Manjoume breathed a little easier. The memory of a desperate Judai – his eyes ringed with bruise-like circles and sparking with a strange, frenzied light, like that of a flickering candle as it burned lower and lower – was still too close, now more than just part of a distant nightmare.

Slowly, carefully, Judai reached across the table and took his empty hand, those long fingers sliding between his, the contact warm.

“Hey, thanks.”

“Y-You…” Manjoume tried again, inhaling fast. “You…don’t have to say that, Judai.”

“Probably not, but I still want to.”

Judai’s thumb traced the dips between his knuckles, and his heart pounded faster than it needed to. Manjoume Thunder, feared contender in the Pro League, did _not_ blush and cower, but it was hard not to, Judai’s fingers crossing his knuckles again.

“You should come with me,” Manjoume said, and Judai’s look of surprised _probably_ matched by his own. In a rush, he continued, aware that he was babbling while Judai just stared, the fingers over his still. “For my exhibition duel in Domino City, you should take some days off, maybe three or four or…something like that, and come with me. I can get the flight, the hotels, whatever. Since you agreed to it, you _are_ my coach, and if you’re really that wound up about relying on me, then let me rely on you more. I...” Fuck. He trailed off, and when he started to move away, Judai’s grip tightened. Those eyes stayed on his own.

“Okay.”

“W-What?”

“Okay, I promise to be there,” Judai said, and Manjoume had to look away, his free hand covering his face while Judai just _kept_ talking, just kept grasping his hand and tangling their fingers together. “Watching you duel on tv just isn’t the same. Plus, I haven’t seen you in one of those stage outfits yet…”

“They’re not that different from my regular clothes…”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Judai said, definitely smirking.

\---

Just as expected, he was in London when the news of his exhibition duel with Edo hit the usual channels and spread fast, #grudgematch and #phoenixthunder topping the real-time searches. The tags were updated fast, a blur of messages surging down his screen, and he swiped away from them and back to the shaky photo Judai had taken at the terminal. The flight back to Fortunis had landed minutes ago, that plant spirit, Sprout, with someone new to care for it.

Swaying as the van took a sharp corner, coat hangers rattling behind him, Manjoume took a deep breath, steadied himself, and then sent out “should be #thunderphoenix, the winner goes first” to his fansite page, the replies instantly filling his screen. When the van jerked to a stop and he strode out of it, his coat spread over his shoulders, a flashbulb went off centimeters from his face and then a massive zoom lens almost bashed into his forehead, paparazzi swarming the building’s entrance instead of a few scattered fans with magazines or cards for him to sign.

Annoying, but he could take it.

The offices of the GB Pro Duel Speciality radio station were small, on one of the highest floors, but they had a dedicated audience and, more importantly, had supported him early in his career, back when his family name had been a massive fucking problem for any media company, even those without direct financial ties to the Manjoume Group. The questions about Edo had been planned in advance, approved by Edo’s own team, but the answers were his own, and he gave each one with the same taunting voice.

“I’m actually doing him a favour, since every duelist should remember the taste of defeat. But, more than that, he’s not living up his name at all. What’s the point in being called _Phoenix_ if you never rise from the ashes? Really, he should bow to me before the duel starts,” he stated, and the announcer, with the entirely unoriginal moniker ‘Duel Kid’, drummed on the table with both hands. “It’s the least I deserve for taking time out of my schedule to deal with him.”

“Well, to all of our valued listeners out there, you’ve now heard what amounts to a declaration of war from the indomitable Manjoume Thunder, here in our studio for an exclusive interview. As I understand it, the tickets for the upcoming exhibition duel between, as I just said, the indomitable Manjoume Thunder and the world’s number-one duelist, the crown prince of the dueling world, Edo Phoenix are expected to sell out in seconds, so most of us will have to settle for catching the event live on Duel Network.” The announcer rattled off more information, the sponsors Edo had provided for the event given as a long list, and Manjoume, waiting, scrolled through his phone again, the hashtags still trending. A new one was #ThunderLIVE, pieces from the interview already spreading online. “So, Thunder,” the announcer began, clearing his throat. “The leaked information painted this as a ‘grudge match’. Can you tell us more about that?”

“You’d have to ask Edo,” Manjoume replied, clicking the screen off. “He’s the one carrying around a grudge.”

“But, if I’m correct, it _is_ true that you’ve defeated Edo Phoenix before, back when you were a student at Duel Academia.”

Footage of the match was already being passed around – some parts of it _less_ than flattering for himself, mostly because of that stupid Ojama costume. “It seems that Edo had to dig pretty far into his past to find a worthy opponent. Like I said, I’m doing him a favour.”

A few hours later, Edo countered every statement he made with a winning smirk, and the chaos just continued from there, Misako taking calls constantly, dragging him through close crowds of screaming fans. Every pro duelist within ten ranks of him was seething, some making their jealousy more obvious than others, and their gazes raked over him as he strode through the dingy hallways bordering the production studios, his phone usually in his hand.

One night, while he was trying to avoid dozing off between commercial breaks on some panel show, Judai sent a blurry selfie of himself and Austin O’Brien, the latter giving the arm around his shoulders a skeptical look. Judai did have a fire attribute spirit with him.

It made sense.

And the unfortunate truth was that the convenience store garbage Manjoume shoved down during his schedules had started to taste like just that, _garbage_. Salty and over-processed. Always at room temperature, any sauces congealing, forming thick, gel-like patches. The mornings passed quickly, a series of interviews or appearances stacked onto each other. And it was strange.

It didn’t _used_ to be strange, not before Judai had started to make his coffee, eggs always frying on the stove. The tv would be blaring, the Ojamas piled in front of it and blathering away while the other spirits circled, feathered wingtips brushing the ceiling. Sometimes Judai would be late for work, hurling his well-worn jacket on with an apologetic smile before running out the door, a wave thrown at Manjoume before it slammed shut.

And maybe he was counting the days now, each message from Judai still not enough.

“He makes it too easy,” Manjoume mumbled to himself, passing through yet-another series of hallways as Misako argued with Edo’s manager, Emeralda, over the phone, her other arm flung to the side in a violent gesture. When someone leapt at him and tried to put him in a makeshift headlock, he almost dropped his medium coconut-cinnamon cream latte, his elbow slamming into the short person behind him. The high-pitched squeak sounded like Sho, probably because it came from Sho.

“W-What the hell?!” Manjoume spat out, and Sho, frowning at his hands, wiped them on Manjoume’s sleeve.

“Errgh. You should use less hair gel…”

“Oh, and _you_ should-”

“H-Hey! _I’m_ the one with the problem here! Wait your turn, okay?” Sho said, fast enough to scramble Manjoume’s brain for a few seconds. His tan cable-knit sweater, red slacks, and white sneakers clashed, the seasons and styles all wrong, not to mention the colours, and Manjoume _would_ have said something had Sho not launched into a speech, one that sounded prepared. “You know, I remember when you broke my favorite mug, the one with the Cycroid on it, and you were sulking around the apartment from the moment I came home, so it was pretty easy to figure out what had happened. I mean, you _are_ kind of clumsy, but-”

“Just get to the point,” he muttered, massaging his forehead. Technically, the mug had been Sho’s fault, it being left in front of the microwave door.

“So, like, when exactly did you get all of these secrets? First it’s the thing with Industrial Illusions, then Judai, and _now_ Edo! You understand, right?”

“Uhh… No.”

Huffing, Sho latched onto his arm. “Well, I guess it’s fine… Maybe I’ll forgive you if you buy me lunch, okay?” Sho’s wink could only be described as ‘sparkly’, and Manjoume just stared at him in response. “You know, your blood is probably like coffee by now, Manjoume-kun…”

“Shut up.”

When Manjoume started down the hallway again, Sho remained attached to his arm, and no matter of flailing or shaking seemed to work. After a few turns, Sho humming along, he determined that they were going to the same place, the studio for the panel show Weekly Duelist. “I take it you're the 'special guest’ for tonight.”

“Why you have to say it like that?” Sho whined. “Well, let's just say when I found out that a good friend of mine would be on Weekly Duelist, I had my manager pull a few strings!”

“Leech,” Manjoume grumbled to himself, and as he followed Misako into his sparse dressing room, Sho came too, letting go of Manjoume’s elbow with a cheerful noise, shutting the door, and then rocking back on his heels. The rumbles were from Sho’s deck, the vehicroids almost purring.

“I’m just here to help you out,” Sho began, and he pouted when Manjoume snorted and shook his head at the idea of Marufuji Sho, master of sneaking his own laundry into other people’s baskets, being _helpful_. “Everyone’s talking about that old duel you had with Edo, and, you know, I _could_ back you up about that, since I was there when it happened. Well, probably. I think.”

Manjoume felt his face twitch, but, because he was technically on a schedule, he let Sho have that one. Rolling off his grey suit jacket, he worked on his tie next, and when he raised an eyebrow at the person sitting on the dressing table, short enough that his feet swung above the tiled floor, Sho just plastered on a sunny smile.

“The door’s over there.”

“Hmm… But your manager gets to stay! Why not an old friend?”

“ _Are_ we friends?” Manjoume shot back as he loosened his cuffs. “If you’re staring that hard, maybe you should get your eyes checked. That would also explain your poor dueling lately.”

Sho almost took the bait, his cheeks puffing out. The vehicroids sounded as a cluster of car horns. “W-What’s the big deal?! You’re still dodging my questions, and, by the way, it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before, like the time there was a cockroach in the bathroom and you ran out while- Mmppf!”

“D-D-Don’t you have anyone _else_ to annoy?!” Manjoume sputtered while he tried to strangle Sho with his dress shirt, but the only casualty was the can of hairspray that fell off the table and rolled under the sofa in the corner, which meant that getting it back would be too much of a pain. The Ojamas were an unhelpful and horrifying cheering squad, and he shoved them away after untangling his old shirt from Sho’s neck and arms. The recording would be in twenty minutes.

Sho, as it turned out, _did_ have someone else to annoy, at least momentarily, and Manjoume managed to change into a sleek all-black suit while Sho, with limited efficiency, tried to get more details about his schedule from Misako, who was scrolling through a recent photoshoot starring a shirtless Edo Phoenix. “So, uh, are you doing…research?”

“You could call it that,” she said, deadpan. Sho gave Manjoume a desperate look.

“If I endorse your Cyber Art Duel League tonight, will you stop acting _more_ immature than usual? I didn’t even think that was possible, considering-” But Sho had already sprung up and, despite the height difference, dragged him into a bear hug, one very pointy elbow digging into his side.

Weekly Duelist, stuck with some nonsensical medieval theme, had draped massive banners over the fake stone walls of its studio, and the senior moderator, Takahashi, dressed like a makeshift jester, the bells from his hat sounding with every turn of his head and needless gesture. And in a moment of arrogance that had even surprised _him_ , Manjoume had considered making his grand entrance with a full crown and flowing cape. He talked himself out of it, the reference to ‘Ojama King’ a bit _too_ easy.

Instead, he had decided to beat Edo at his own game, although, as he had discovered, that required a lot of fittings.

In the mirror, he adjusted his slim three-piece suit, the single-breasted jacket tapered and cut at the perfect length, his cufflinks catching the light. The narrow lapels flared slightly at his collar, and, although he missed it already, he left his worn, fraying coat crumpled up by a chair. A dark overcoat was draped across his shoulders, its lining a stark electric blue, bright enough to look almost white.

“I don't know if ‘super villain’ is the look you should go for,” Sho commented, and Manjoume raised an eyebrow as he closed his open cuffs, the silver thunderbolts flashing. The dress shoes were next, glossy and all black. “You're also not going to keep those clean for long,” Sho added, his fluffy blue hair entering the corner of Manjoume’s vision. It was all the warning he had before Sho poked him in the ribs, which, of course, immediately halved the chances of Manjoume buying him lunch. “So, are you trying to impress somebody or…?”

“Aside from my thousands of adoring fans?”

“Uh, yeah? Don’t forget that _you’re_ the one who has shown up to a fan sign in a t-shirt before,” Sho replied, and, seated on the low couch opposite to them, Misako snapped her notebook shut and buttoned her blazer, a sign of the late time. It wasn’t long until Sho’s manager was knocking at the closed door, and he let out a beleaguered sigh at the sight of Sho’s messy ponytail and scuffed sneakers.

Straightening to his full height, Manjoume took one last look at himself in the mirror, the overcoat swaying. Sleek. All sharp angles and piercing grey eyes, his waistcoat tapered and ending just above his narrow hips. His flight to Fortunis was in nine days and five hours, and he would have just over two days before another flight overseas, his schedule a blur in those precious few days and weeks before the duel. And maybe Sho was too perceptive for his own good, since Judai had stayed up for the last episode of Weekly Duelist. Maybe he would again.

Maybe.

Misako raised her eyebrows when he loosened his tie and let it fall onto the table. He opened the top three buttons, and, smirking, he pivoted on his heel and strode past the others.

\---

**Yuki Judai [19:06]: hmmmm**

**Yuki Judai [19:06]: so do u get to keep the clothes u wear for these programs or…?**

\---

 


	14. Direct, Indirect

\---

“So… You're coming back on Thursday, right?”

“I've only told you ten times already,” Manjoume mumbled, his phone by his ear.

“Ah, but that's so far away…”

“You're telling _me_ that?” he blurted out. “I’m the one sleeping in cars and eating instant curry. I'd kill someone for a hot shower right now.”

“Your schedule ends in only two hours, and I did book a four-star hotel for you tonight,” Misako muttered from his side, and he scowled a little. Two hours was still two hours. And, of course, he still had to deal with Edo Phoenix.

They were outside – a light rain hitting the pavement and beading on the edge of his umbrella – and almost at the Duel Today studios. He had studied his script, the exchange short enough that his own lines shouldn’t be a problem. Judai’s call had been unexpected.

“So, if nothing’s wrong and you haven’t burned the apartment down,” Manjoume continued, Judai humming, “then you’re probably just bored and want _me_ to entertain _you._ ”

“Hey, not at all!” Judai yelped, and he had to be smirking, his tone teasing. “I’ll have you know that I take my role as your coach very seriously, so I’m, uh, concerned that you’re not practicing. I mean, Edo is supposed to be the best.”

“If you’re my coach, you shouldn’t say that.”

And then Judai changed the topic, something rattling in the background. Maybe hot oil in a pan. Or a mug put down too fast, a spoon hitting its side. “Wait, hold on. You’re coming back Thursday, right?”

“Is that a problem for you?” Manjoume asked, sarcastic. He could see the studio lights, bright over the small crowd gathered by the side entrance. The orange lightsticks and paper fans were for Edo, the star of an earlier prime-time interview.

“Johan should be here too, since he's helping us out at the research center. Maybe the three of us could go out for dinner or something?”

“Sure, but you and Johan are too alike,” Manjoume retorted, and the confrontation closed in, closer with every step. “We all know who's getting stuck with the bill.”

Judai let out a low, rolling laugh. “Plus, if we go somewhere nice, then you have to dress up a little. You’ve still got that suit from Weekly Duelist, right?”

“You’re impossible.”

“Maybe, but I think that you like it.”

Manjoume stood in place, the crowd by the door noticing him and his small entourage – some representatives from his agency tagging along, _probably_ to tear him away from Edo if he said something out of line. “The phone call is a nice touch, makes the delay seem natural,” Misako said to herself, the rapid-fire message she typed likely to Edo's manager, Emeralda. He drew more curious looks from the crowd, the whispers starting.

A muted coal-grey, the suit Manjoume wore was in the same style, tailored perfectly with a tapered waist, thin lapels, and structured shoulders, their ridges showing through the all-black overcoat draped across them. This time he had kept the tie, a lighter grey crossed with sharp diagonals, and he folded in his transparent umbrella with one smooth motion, Misako taking it from him next. That left ending the call with Judai, Edo’s fans eyeing him from a noticeable distance. He glanced up when the door swung open and, trailed by a pack of bodyguards, Edo strode out. Their eyes locked, as if it was accidental.

“Then you should try to impress me too. It’s not fair if I do all of the work,” Manjoume said, his voice rising, and Edo stopped less than a meter away, every angle of his posture reading confidence, the kind that could disarm a lesser opponent, could disarm someone _else_. Judai’s breath rasped in his ear. “I’ll get back to you. There’s another person I need to discipline today.”

“Ah, not fair. I wanted you all to myself, but…” Judai sighed, and Manjoume glared at Edo, the misplaced target of his frustration. “Guess I’ll have to share for now.”

With that, Manjoume clicked his phone off, and nothing happened at first. The cameras had crowded in. A strange, fragile silence was suspended over them. The wall of bodyguards stood still. Edo tilted his head to the side, a white bandage on one cheekbone.

And then Manjoume realized that, of all the _fucking_ things that could happen, he had forgotten his opening line.

Ojama Yellow, about as helpful as a brick thrown at his head, wailed in his front pocket, snot and tears streaming down his pudgy face, and maybe the silence extended _too_ long, the manager behind Edo fidgeting and tapping her phone with a manicured nail. Doing her part, Misako cleared her throat loudly and faked a cough, and the eye contact changed the moment Edo, his expression cracking, hid a laugh behind one hand.

Fuck that guy.

When Edo Phoenix, prince of the dueling world, went off script, no group of managers, assistants, and bureaucrats surged forward to stop him. He crossed his arms, creasing his immaculate blue jacket, and took a step closer. “You know, I’ve been hearing a lot of things about you, Thunder. Mostly that you’re ungrateful for the chance I’ve given you, the opportunity to test yourself against my deck.”

Manjoume stood his ground, an eyebrow arched. “‘Ungrateful’? You can’t be serious. _You’re_ the one dragging up ancient history and expecting others to go along with it. It’s pathetic.”

Serious fans of the Pro League recognized that not _all_ great rivalries were completely authentic, most duelists exaggerating the details, putting on a ‘show’ with every heated gesture, every word spat through gritted teeth. And Edo sank into his role with a jagged smirk, his artic blue eyes flashing. Spread chains flickered behind him, the Destiny Heroes stirring, reacting.

The Ojamas were less elegant, Green lifting Yellow and Black onto his shoulders, their shrill cheers ringing out, before faceplanting against the concrete.

“Ah, but you are going along with it,” Edo stated, and while they were roughly the same height, Edo’s dress shoes had a slight heel, making the eye contact uneven. The pause was also deliberate, and the voices around them rose. “The way I see it, I’m correcting a mistake in my dueling record, one that has stood for far too long. Or, rather, I’m getting rid of a stain.”

“Waiting that long was your first mistake,” Manjoume said, and Edo leaned back, his interest clear. “I’ve only risen from that point, using my own defeats as the valuable experiences that they are.”

“Oh? Then what’s my second mistake?”

“Acting like you’ve earned the right to be that arrogant. You’re wasting my time, Edo, and I’m going to make you pay for it with a defeat.”

And that had crossed some line, Misako grabbing his arm and pulling him back. The fans jeered, loud enough that the bodyguards spread out further, and the noise had drawn in a thicker crowd, put more cameras on them. Another opponent would have bristled at his words, maybe spat out an answer without thinking it through, but Edo had grown up in this world, molded himself to it.

Edo still fought harder than he needed to, the curve of a mottled bruise showing through. His knuckles were scarred, almost more than Judai’s.

“I think I’ll enjoy this,” Edo declared, and he pivoted on his heel, his jacket flaring out. “I wonder how far I can make you fall, Thunder. And, of course, I wonder if you’ll have any strength left to rise again.”

With a lasting smirk, Manjoume turned away and made for the door, the crowd exploding with noise, questions thrown out from all sides, and he saw Edo again just before it shut – his hands in his pockets, loose chains trailing behind him.

“The search results are in,” Misako said as they continued down the nondescript hallway, her silver rings clicking before she passed him her phone. “Congratulations, you're trending again.”

“Why do they keep using that order?” Manjoume mumbled, scrolling through the onslaught of #phoenixthunder posts.

“Actually, your fanbase is using the other tag.”

“Like they should,” he said, and that made Misako laugh. Edo's response came later, when he was in his hotel room with his deck spread out over the bed, the monster cards isolated and flipped over.

**PHOENIX [20:14]: 'pathetic’ was a nice touch**

His response was instant, his other hand shifting through a stack of Ojamas.

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [20:14]: youre a masochist**

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [20:14]: how surprising**

**PHOENIX [20:14]: save some of that talk for our match**

“Obviously,” he said to himself, and, alone, he did not have to hold back his genuine smile, different than the one he wore in front of the cameras. Cruel. Taunting.

But Edo wasn't his only opponent, and Judai made his opening move the next night, Manjoume rubbing at his eyes in the back of the van, his luggage digging into his side.

When he was back, he needed to show Judai how to take a straight photo, this one at an extreme diagonal. He stared at it for a long time, his brain slow to process it, and _then_ it clicked. He dragged a hand over his face.

Yeah, Judai was an opponent. A strong one.

The tilted photo had been taken in a clothing store, rows of shirts in the background, and Judai had used one hand to hold out the sleeves of two dress shirts: one black, one red.

His message was simple.

**Yuki Judai [13:37]: can u guess which one i got?**

Clothes like that didn't suit Judai at all, their lines too rigid and formal. And Manjoume doubted that Judai knew how to put on a tie, despite his interest in the ones that Manjoume wore himself, always dark, thin strips of fabric.

But, then again, he was curious, _too_ curious.

A night out. Judai, wearing new clothes just for him, as if to hold his attention and keep it on no one else. In the red, the warm shards of gold in Judai's eyes would shine. In the black, it would be the stark white of his teeth, fanged when Yubel pushed through. And, perhaps, they were the reason for Judai's strange, almost feline way of moving, every action smooth, continuing into the next. Some emotions turned Judai's smirks feral, wild at the edges. Some pitched his voice lower, another echoing it, sinking it.

No, clothes like that wouldn't suit Judai. Not at all, but _that_ was the fucking problem – rigid lines over broad shoulders, thin fabric over translucent scales. Manjoume sank into his seat. He clicked the screen off, his face _burning_.

He might not survive this.

\---

Thursday, and Manjoume was back in Fortunis, two interviews and a fanmeeting already done with.

In the hallway outside his apartment, there was a mammoth, a turtle, and a small rabbit, his Rescue Rabbit curled up and snoring like the other two.

Apparently Johan had dropped by early.

“I'm not taking another roommate,” he muttered to himself, and when he opened his front door, the sound hit him first. Laughter. Low, rolling laughter.

The other Crystal Beasts darted through the room, fading as sunbeams and bursting out of speckled shadows, and they circled their chosen duelist, the ever-present cat spirit kneading its paws on his back. It glanced up when Manjoume shut the door and dropped his luggage. Next was Johan, waving from the couch.

Next was Yubel, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table and tapping their claws on its surface.

Winged Kuriboh hooted at him from the ceiling, and before Manjoume could turn around, someone put a hand on his hip, a palm sliding over his belt. And no one but Judai would stand close like that – strands of hair brushed against his cheek, something dizzying about the way Judai leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“Welcome back, Thunder.”

And the hand slid up before moving away, and Manjoume knew that his face was on fire, his heart pounding faster than it needed to. It had been weeks since Judai had been close, the echoes of stadiums and studios broken by the silences of his hotel rooms, the faint buzzes of the distant city streets below.

The static was softer than before, like the rustle of a low wind, and Judai, smirking, walked over to the couch and flopped down next to Johan. His legs crossed Johan's lap, his feet on an arm rest. Yubel, raising a cup to their parted lips, gave the Completely Necessary comment of, “I think he missed you.”

“What's with the crowd in here? Sorry to disappoint, but I'm done signing things for today,” Manjoume said as he rolled his coat off his shoulders, and the Crystal Beasts continued to drift through the rooms, the pegasus stretching its wings and prancing by Yubel, flickers of sapphire blue following the clicks of its hooves.

“Ah, that's a shame,” Judai drawled, his hands behind his head, and the _real_ shame was his baggy grey sweater. It left the question of red or black unanswered, and Manjoume, matching his stare, raked a hand through his long bangs and pushed them back.

“So, Judai's the one helping you out with Edo?” Johan asked.

“He's also not supposed to tell anyone about that.”

“Oh. Oops,” Judai added, and Johan shoved his legs to the side, his grin impish.

With a deep sigh, Manjoume sank into his recliner, the Ojamas perched on the armrest in a neat row. Whenever the tiger stepped closer, they cringed and began to whine. The other low-attack spirits were more adventurous, flitting in and out of the spaces between the Crystal Beasts, their chirps and squeaks bird-like.

Those sounds could wake him from a dead sleep.

The coffee table was strewn with papers, Yubel in the middle like a bird with a badly made nest, and they must have been working before he came in, Judai's slanted, hurried characters filling the blank spaces of some forms. They were familiar from the random postcards and letters Judai had sent out after graduation, every word written like he was in a hurry, bordering on illegible. But sometimes those characters were broken by those written with thick, rigid lines, all vertical marks parallel to one another, and Manjoume associated them with Yubel, the spirit doing the equivalent of grabbing the pen from Judai and taking over.

Most of the clutter had to be Johan's, his well-worn messenger bag by the window and tilted over, empty. His writing was neat and curved, lining the pages of an open notebook. The doodles in the margins had to be from Judai, Ruby Carbuncle jumping at Grand Mole.

Predictably, Judai had forgotten to make the reservation, and when he came up with excuse after excuse, Johan tickled the underside of his knee and then dodged the swing Judai made at his hand. “Hey, you shouldn't give Thunder the wrong impression,” Johan taunted with a knowing smile.

“I'm not! I really just-”

“Forgot?”

“Well, I mean, the restaurant _did_ still have a table when I called, so… It's like nothing happened!” Judai said, and he let out a loud squawk when Johan went for his knee again, Yubel rolling their eyes as Judai tried to shove him off the couch.

“Very mature, my darling.”

Manjoume, blinking back a sudden exhaustion, watched them together, Judai ruffling Johan's hair until it was bigger and fluffier than usual, like half of a massive blue Kuriboh.

A few months after they had graduated, he had entered an open tournament hosted by Schroeder Corp and found himself in the quarterfinals against Johan, who had happened to be in the area and bored enough to seek out a challenge. Although Johan _had_ knocked him out, swarming the field with monsters and then forming even more out of his back row, the consolation was that Johan had then gone on to win the entire tournament, the commemorative photos catching the shy grin he gave the officials.

Johan had also taken him out for dinner after – an offer that had surprised him at the time, Johan flipping through his tournaments winnings and declaring, “I can't order enough to cover this myself.” Manjoume, cornered for a second time that night, had let Johan lead the way through the snow-covered streets: frail snowflakes drifting and curving down, clinging together.

First, Johan had tried to explain his internship with Industrial Illusions, but the details had made _less_ sense over time, Manjoume left with the impression that whatever the company wanted with Johan was too complicated for him, especially after playing his way in through an open bracket. The second topic was the more predictable one, as Johan and Judai had already met up and taken down some megalomaniac trying to corrupt the spirit world. Or something.

At some point during their dinner – Johan, more adventurous than he was, ordering by pointing at the menu and then shrugging at the results – Manjoume had realized that Johan and Judai were either dating or _close_ to dating. It wasn't a surprise at all. They had already finished each other's sentences back at Duel Academia.

By the time he joined Johan at the company parties for Industrial Illusions – the stories of their adventures given with the same toothy grin but more details, less pauses – something else must have changed, maybe ended. Weeks ago, Johan had shrugged off his questions on their relationship, as if those answers would be trivial.

Picking himself off the floor, Judai yelped when Johan grabbed his shirt collar and pulled it back. “Hey! I thought I lost this!”

“Uh… But this is my sweater?”

“No way!” Johan declared. “Just look at the tag!”

“That's...almost impossible from this angle…” When Johan arched an eyebrow, Judai plastered an innocent look on his face, waved his hands, and quickly added, “I-It was in my luggage! I swear!”

“Sure, sure. Like I haven't heard that before…” The cat spirit ducked its smooth head and ran a paw over its ears. “I guess your stuff should be safe from this thief,” Johan said next, nodding at Manjoume, “since you're not his size.”

“He's already taken my scarf,” Manjoume muttered. “I'd like to see him try to get my jeans on.”

“I...don't think I'll take that challenge,” Judai said with a bright laugh, and then he gave Johan a quick look, almost hesitant. Still cross-legged on the table, Yubel straightened their wings, the tips rising off the floor, the thick folds of purple-grey stretching out. “Uh, speaking of things that I've forgotten to do recently….”

“You're going to have to be more specific than that,” Manjoume stated, and their eyes locked, Judai's a warm brown.

“Yeah, well…”

“Just get to the point.”

Judai paused, his eyes flickering over to someone else, the person sitting next to him. “So, after graduation, Johan and I were together for awhile. I thought you should know about it, although…maybe you already do.”

“You're underestimating my intelligence if you think I couldn't figure _that_ out,” Manjoume said, although that old jealousy had been hard to take when it first hit.

The cat spirit curved around Johan's neck stopped kneading its paws against his shirt and instead burrowed closer, its red eyes sliding shut. The other beasts drew closer, a large panther bringing its forehead down Johan's arm and letting out a low purr.

“If it's a problem, I can take off,” Johan said, and, shrugging, he then continued in the same light way, as if Manjoume couldn't _see_ the beasts circling him, closing in with careful, gentle steps. Maybe Johan, underneath it all, was really just as much of an idiot as Judai. “It's not a big deal, so I-”

“Are you _trying_ to insult me?” Manjoume asked, and Johan stopped, startled. The Ojamas cowered under the sharp glare of Johan's eagle, but Manjoume just ignored them, his hands clenching. “If so, you're doing a great job. Really, I didn't think you had it in you, Johan. I'm almost impressed.”

“I...didn't mean to-”

“You love Judai.”

“Of course I do,” Johan said, unblinking. The beasts continued to stir, feathers gliding over thick fur and bright scales.

And, at those simple words, Manjoume leaned back in his chair and sighed, a weight sliding off his shoulders, the exhaustion making them feel hollow.

“I can't believe I have to explain this. If I really was stupid enough to hate you, Johan, then I _probably_ wouldn't have asked for your help. But I did ask for it. What does that mean?”

“That...you might actually like me?” Johan replied, and then he laughed. “Wow, I'm touched! Don't think I've got a compliment from you before!”

“Judai, your stupidity might be contagious…”

“H-Hey, don't bring me into this!” Judai yelped, and Manjoume let out another sigh.

“Your opinion of me shouldn't be that low. I've probably grown more than either of you, and I will not be treated like a weaker person, especially _not_ when I'm in my own damn apartment.”

“I get it, don't worry,” Johan said, and then Manjoume interrupted, a scowl turning his face.

“I'm not done. What I _do_ have a problem with now is you two running off and acting like heroes again. We all know how that can turn out, don't we?” Yubel gave him a reaction, bristling and raising their wings higher. “I won't take being left in the dark, and I won't let either of you forget what kind of ally I am. Do you _really_ think I've been slacking off for all of these years? Don't underestimate me.”

“Manjoume, we didn't want to bother you, that's all,” Judai said, and his smile was soft, enough to break Manjoume's concentration. “From talking to Edo, I knew what being a new pro duelist meant, the long hours and touring… Taking that away from you felt selfish, like it could damage your future. At least, it did to me.”

“It was the same for me,” Johan added, and his beasts had moved away again, back to running around the apartment and darting through its walls.

“Just don't expect me to tolerate that behaviour in the future. It's an insult, especially coming from you, Judai.”

“I understand,” Judai said, nodding, and that strange tension left Manjoume's hands, his fingers back to crossing the space between his eyebrows, working out the pressure there.

“When's the reservation again? I need a drink or...five.”

“Uhhh….”

“It’s at seven,” Johan stated, and he poked Judai with an elbow. “Wait, don't tell me. You forgot that too.”

“W-Well…”

“How predictable,” Manjoume added, and Judai slumped over, pouting.

“Two against one isn't fair… Hey, Yubel?”

“Hmm? What is it, my darling?”

“You're on my side, right?”

They paused for effect, stirring their tea absently. “Ah, I think I have to agree with the representatives from North Academy. We both know who handles our schedule, don't we?”

“Even you, Yubel…” Judai tilted his head and sighed, Johan giggling into one hand. Already in a seafoam-green dress shirt and grey slacks, Johan had chosen _relatively_ subdued pieces for their night out, his violet socks in sharp contrast. An Industrial Illusions passcard hung around his neck, the lanyard covered with different buttons, patches, and pins, several from finishing first in open tournaments. Manjoume recognized at least six, the borders a brassy gold.

Maybe Manjoume still had _one_ grudge against Johan, the guardian of Rainbow Dragon, but it didn't involve Judai at all, not unless he wanted to be their referee.

“Although that makes me just like Edo Phoenix, the bastard,” Manjoume mumbled to himself, and, receiving two identical looks of wide-eyed confusion, he waved one hand. “Just...forget it. Not important.”

Seeing duel spirits had some positive aspects, although enduring the daily sight of the Ojama brothers strutting around in their matching briefs was a major negative, the stuff of nightmares. He had caught Misako giving him a confused look on more than one occasion, usually after he had rattled off information that was, apparently, classified, like the identity of a secret guest duelist or the participants in an upcoming tournament. The Ojamas were major gossips, and, despite being moronic enough that he had almost switched decks numerous times, they knew a _lot_ more about other spirits than they let on, those conversations in fast whispers.

When Rescue Rabbit hoped through the wall, lowered its helmet over one eye, and peered up at him, Manjoume dropped his head into his hands and cursed violently.

Of _all_ the people to visit him now.

“Are...you sure you're okay? Maybe you should slow down your schedule for a bit,” Judai said.

Manjoume heaved another sigh. “Just make sure he doesn't take my chair,” he muttered and then started for the door. He swung it open before the first knock.

Pegasus J. Crawford, in a deep scarlet suit and carrying a massive gift basket. A fleet of security guards lined the wall behind him.

“Ah! Jun-chan!” Pegasus exclaimed, and Manjoume could _already_ hear the snickering. If the low-attack spirits picked up on that, they were going in the shredder, no questions asked. “Why, what's with that frown!”

“What do you want?”

Adjusting the inconspicuous basket, Pegasus puffed his chest out. “Well, today I'm acting as a deliveryman, a very well-dressed one if I do say so myself. This is a house-warming gift, and, why, I think it's for you!”

“Are you serious? I moved in last year.”

“Hmm… True, but your situation has changed, hasn't it?” When he leveled a glare at Pegasus, it did not have the desired effect, as Pegasus only hefted the basket higher. “I think an invitation is in order, Jun-chan.”

“What are you, a vampire?”

“Hmm. Perhaps…”

Picking the lesser of two evils, conversing with Pegasus or _ignoring_ Pegasus, Manjoume let the eccentric multibillionaire stride into his apartment and carefully place the basket on his kitchen counter, three of the bodyguards following while the rest took up their positions in the hallway. When Manjoume turned around, he found that his one-to-two-person apartment was full, absolutely and completely _full_ from the influx of humans and spirits, more of Judai’s venturing out to stare at Pegasus. He slammed the door.

Great. Fucking _great_.

“This is like something out of a sitcom,” Pegasus observed, perching on the dining chair that Johan, polite enough for the three of them, had taken into the living room, “so I just _had_ to see it for myself. Two of the new generation’s greatest duelists, both experts on the mysterious and enigmatic spirit world, in one place…and you’re also here, Jun-chan!”

“Give me one good reason not to throw you out,” Manjoume said, acidic, and the Ojamas cheered for him, drawing skeptical looks from the Crystal Beasts and the remaining Neo-Spacians. Pegasus considered his answer, twisting a strand of silver-grey hair around one long finger.

“Here’s one for you. While I am a long-time supporter of the immortal Phoenix, I’m not so short-sighted that I would ignore the pedigree of his next opponent, perhaps the most unpredictable one that he’s had to face in years. Although, some would say that ‘impulsive’ is more accurate.” Pegasus held his stare, satisfaction marking his face. “In truth, I’m here to lend you a helping hand, if you’re willing to accept it.”

Manjoume snorted. He crossed his arms. “You’re acting like I need one. Sorry, but I don’t need to humor your delusions, Pegasus.”

“Uhhh… Manjoume?”

Arching an eyebrow, he glanced at Judai. “What?”

“Don’t forget that we technically work for him, so…” Judai made a complicated hand gesture.

“So _what_?”

“Could you…maybe tone it down a-”

“Pegasus could buy a country if he wanted to,” Manjoume said, aware of how much that fact jaded his irate brothers, their current empire like an isolated village in comparison to the sprawling metropolis of Pegasus’s own. “If talking to me bothers him that much, I’m sure he’ll find a way to endure it.”

When Pegasus spread his right hand out, one of the suited bodyguards appeared at his side and opened a slim metal case. “Ah, Jun-chan, you really are the most charming member of your family. It’s not even a contest, as far as I’m concerned.” Inside were cards, Pegasus taking them with careless ease. “Well, since I’ve bothered to bring these here, I may as well show you. This is an exclusive preview, and even you should know that it’s rare for me to reveal my creations early.”

Even Yubel was drawn in, a phantom again, and their claws rounded the top of Pegasus’s chair. But when Pegasus held them out, two in total, Manjoume was struck by the sudden temptation to walk away, a grey patch showing through the parted strands over Pegasus’s missing eye. He did nothing, his hands at his sides. “I wouldn’t recommend turning him down,” Yubel drawled, their full lips in a low, slanted smirk. “There’s no dangerous trap to be avoided here. As a matter of fact, there’s no trap at all.”

“What do you mean?” he said to Yubel, and Pegasus exchanged a curious look with his bodyguard.

That look changed when Yubel pushed back into reality, their veined wings folded across their back, their head bent over Pegasus’s shoulder, and Pegasus immediately held up his free hand, stopping any reactions from his bodyguards. A comical surprise stayed on his face, and the cards tilted sharply, the nameplates visible.

They were Ojamas.

“Industrial Illusions is releasing some new cards in two days, an attempt to profit off the public’s notable interest in your exhibition duel with Edo Phoenix. The thematic focus is clear, as two new Ojama monsters and two support spells for the Destiny Heroes are included. Phoenix has already received a similar offer, and, if I’m not mistaken, he took it,” Yubel explained, and Pegasus – stunned, staring the scaled hand closest to him – did not interrupt. Angling their head to the side, Yubel then added, “It’s just an early release, Thunder. He’s not giving you any tangible advantage, unless you consider the cards themselves.”

“How…did you…?”

“They were talking in the hallway,” Yubel said, shrugging. “I suppose I can simply hear better than humans can, although that’s not much of an accomplishment.”

Yubel’s words stayed with him, and there were too many options all of a sudden, too many _questions_.

But his annoyance was stronger than anything else.

“Y-You’re messing with the balance now? Pegasus, you…” Biting down, he tried again. “Do you even respect your own game?”

Apparently transfixed by the roughly two-meter tall apparition above him, Pegasus took awhile to respond, his eyes darting over Yubel’s wings and returning to their hands, the longer scales there serrated like knives. “You’re painting me in the wrong light, Jun-chan. The truth is that I woke up one night and found myself at my easel, the portraits here already started. It was the same for the Destiny Hero cards, although those were, ah, the more precarious to attempt, the compositions all wrong at first.” Blinking fast, he turned back to Manjoume, the cards still held out. “Of course, the timing here is… Well, I understand your concern, Jun-chan, but I _do_ think that these will change your mind.”

He took them, and immediately the spirits rose up – Ojama Red followed by Ojama Blue, shaking as he crawled out of the portrait.

“Woah! Is everyone here for us?!” Red exclaimed, and Blue spun around, horrified.

“N-No way… T-There’s…a _dragon_ here!”

Because Blue’s rectangle-shaped head then turned pale, drained of its colour, Manjoume curved his fingers and folded the little spirit against his palm, drawing out a sharp squeal. Such contact normally made the Ojamas react, as if it _could_ be more than intangible. “No one’s going to eat you, so just shut up about that.” Slowly, he directed Blue into the front pocket of his shirt, a frayed, grey long-sleeve with more holes than buttons, and that made Yellow explode into tears, his ‘special spot’ being taken up by someone else. By the time Manjoume, threatening to throw his deck off the balcony more than once, managed to calm the Ojamas down, Pegasus had overcome his surprise and was running a reverent hand over Yubel’s gauntlet-like wrist, the bodyguard behind him visibly tense.

“There’s an iridescent quality to them, shades of teal and green that only show in the light,” Pegasus murmured, careful as he angled Yubel’s knuckles. “Ah, this detail… There’s so much missing… You must give me another chance at your portrait.”

“I believe it’s wise to avoid flatters. Therefore, I have no choice but to decline,” Yubel replied, and Pegasus looked up.

“That’s…very Machiavellian of you.”

“Oh, is it?”

“I understand your decision, and I thank you,” Pegasus said, inclining his head, and then he turned on Judai. “Yubel is exquisite, refined, and an absolute _dream_ , and the contrast between the two of you is… Well, it’s almost like the difference in talent between you and Jun-chan!”

Manjoume narrowed his eyes, and Judai had tried to stop a laugh. “I can’t believe he lets you get away with that.”

“I don’t _let_ him get away with anything,” Manjoume snapped, which only made Judai’s expression twist even more, his next laugh closer to escaping.

“So, if I called you that…”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I could try it,” Judai said, and Manjoume was _almost_ thankful when Rescue Rabbit leapt back into the room and yanked its tiny goggles down, the message clear.

The message made his head hurt.

“What…the fuck is going on?”

“Uh, Manjoume…?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Just…save my chair again,” he added, sending a quick glare at the nearest bodyguard. Johan – content to watch the chaos as Yubel leered and inched closer to the three Ojama brothers, their wails rising – waved as he walked past. He _really_ needed a drink, especially now that Sho of all people was about to make his grand entrance.

\---

“Who planned this? Pegasus? Johan?”

“Uhhh…”

“Can't be Judai… Wait, was it _you_?”

In the hallway, Sho peered up at him through his signature circular glasses, his chin covered by a thick wool scarf. “You really need to retire the whole detective thing, Manjoume-kun. It never works out for you.”

“Why would I trust _your_ opinion?” Manjoume snapped, and Ojama Red, spinning above him and whistling like an oversized mosquito, blurted out, “What's with this guy?! Let's duel him, Thunder! Us Ojamas will teach him a thing or two, right Blue?”

Huddled in Manjoume's front pocket, Ojama Blue looked closer to fainting than challenging anyone. “N-No way!”

“Go be a nuisance somewhere else,” Manjoume said, directed at Ojama Red.

“You're really not a good host either,” Sho observed, and Manjoume, shoving Ojama Red away, dragged the other duelist inside and closed the door, as if _that_ would stop more random idiots from showing up. “So… _You're_ having a party? Why is… Wait, is that _Pegasus_?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Huh.” Sho toed off his sneakers and made for the living room, Johan quick to throw out the first greeting, but Judai was the first one to reach Sho, laughing as he was pulled into a bear hug. Sho buried his face in Judai's sweater, his words muffled by the thick fabric.

“Aniki, you're the worst,” Sho mumbled, and Judai ruffled his hair, confirming that statement.

“Hey, at least let me defend myself!”

“No way,” Sho declared, shaking his head. “If I say you're the worst, then you're the worst.”

“That's not fair,” Judai said, but he only smiled wider, Sho's bangs passing under his palm.

With the vehicroids bumping around the room, there was _no_ space left, and Manjoume felt his face twitch as Cyber Dragon shifted in and out of sight, its metallic coils clicking together. Ojama Blue slapped his hands over his eyes. “M-Maybe we should, uh…. I-I think I left my stove on!”

“Nothing can hurt you while I'm here,” Manjoume said, and Sho gave him another curious look, one that Manjoume scowled at. “What's _your_ problem?”

“Nothing. Just surprised to hear you say something that wasn't an insult,” Sho explained, and then he blinked up at Judai. “As far as roommates go, Manjoume-kun is pretty much useless. He never does the dishes, so get ready for that.”

“You little…”

When Manjoume lunged at Sho, several things happened at once. The most obvious was that Sho finally noticed Yubel, all scales and sharp angles, and immediately yelped, “J-Judai?! You know that Yubel's out here, r-right?” The second was that Johan grabbed Manjoume's sleeve and, startled, Manjoume let himself be pulled back.

The third was the familiar rabbit that hopped over his feet.

“Guess you got another visitor,” Johan remarked, and, sneering, Manjoume yanked his arm away.

But when he threw the door open, he had nothing to say.

Ryo had changed, the eyes on his own like molten silver, the focus behind them enough to hold him still, one hand digging into the doorframe. The Ojamas felt it more than he did, slowly drawing back, and their hands tangled together as they cowered. Two parallel lines from that infamous shock collar banded Ryo's throat, burned in deep enough that, as Sho had told him once, downcast and blinking back tears, they weren't expected to ever heal. They were a faint grey-white, the edges coiled ridges of pale tissue.

The cane wasn't new, but that spark in Ryo’s eyes was, and Manjoume found himself blocking the door for longer than he meant to, standing in front of the icon of Obelisk Blue.

The first time he had visited Ryo in the hospital, it had been at Sho's request, one that he couldn't turn down. The contrast between a pale brittle arm and the stark blue sheets below it had stayed with him for months after, and sometimes it still returned to him, jolting him out of sleep in the back of some car, in the stiff seat of some plane. There, machinery whirling with every rasped breath, the strong aquiline lines of Ryo's face had been ground down into bare, raw curves of grey bone, pressing up into taunt skin as if they could pierce through it, show themselves.

Ryo had recovered, but he emerged as someone new, the remains of the Hell Kaiser still scattered in that other dimension.

“It's not wise to provoke a prideful lion when you're without a spear or a shield, Manjoume,” Ryo said slowly, something like humor turning his thin but handsome face, his high cheekbones drawing in grey shadows. Like Sho, he kept his long hair in a low ponytail, but the effect was different on Ryo, far more elegant.

“I think I can handle an upstart like Edo just fine, but thanks for your concern,” Manjoume replied, and he breathed in. He blinked fast. “He's more of a house cat than a lion.”

“I take it that my brother has already arrived,” Ryo stated, his strange smile flickered. “The truth is that my doctors finally cleared me for a driver's license, and perhaps you can imagine what kind of navigator Sho is.” It was a horrifying idea, and Manjoume nodded sympathetically. “He’ll be relieved to learn that I managed to find the parking garage by myself.”

“I...see,” Manjoume said, when he held the door out for Ryo, the older duelist paused at the threshold. Even without the spirits, the cluster of bodyguards made a strong impression, Pegasus perched in the middle of it all.

“What's the special occasion?”

Manjoume frowned. The truth was simple.

“I have no fucking idea.”

Ryo leaned against the cane and watched as Judai nodded along to whatever Sho said next, Winged Kuriboh circling overhead. “So, he really is here…”

“Are you going to challenge him?”

“We'll see,” was Ryo's answer, although his eyes were determined, narrowed as they passed over Judai again. “This deck fell apart too fast last time.”

“Last time?”

But Ryo just gave him a cryptic look and then joined his brother, Sho's shoulders sagging in visible relief. Judai shook the hand that Ryo held out, his smile wide. The greetings continued, Johan taking Ryo's hand next.

At the sight of Yubel, Ryo remained far more composed than his brother, the younger taking a step behind the elder, and that was the first duel that broke out, Yubel taking Judai's deck with a fanged smirk and Ryo unclasping the hard case at his belt, the cards coiled with something dark, something serpentine.

The second was between Ryo and Judai himself, Yubel melding with him again, and it wasn't until the final turn that Manjoume remembered the reservation, now missed by thirty minutes. He blamed it on Judai.

\---

“Pssssst. Jun-chan.”

“If you call me that again,” Manjoume began, each word given with a pointed jab at Judai’s foot with his own, “I’m going to do everything in my power to ensure that _you_ get left with the bill.”

“Ah, I’ll have to be careful then,” Judai replied, Yubel showing as a trace of green-blue in his right eye. In the low light, the flecks of gold shone, and the easy way Judai smiled at him did something to Manjoume’s self-control, strained in a way that he had _expected_ but couldn’t compensate for. And, unthinking, he found himself staring at Judai’s chest, the thin black fabric tracing its hard angles, and then at his shoulders, at his bare hands.

Maybe the alcohol had been a bad idea, his second glass of wine already started, its full taste on his tongue.

While he could have left Sho, Pegasus, and the entourage of body guards on the sidewalk with zero remorse and maybe some lingering satisfaction, Ryo was someone he had obligations to. Those indistinct, intangible things made him stutter through an invitation to dinner, Judai and Johan immediately agreeing with the idea. But, of course, inviting _one_ brother led to the other one complaining, and, from there, Pegasus somehow involved himself, probably because he found their arguments entertaining.

Given that Manjoume had been too tired to argue about it, Pegasus chose the restaurant, and the event room and its long table was immediately cleared at his request. Overhead, the ceiling pushed back into a curved oblong shape, the center pale, smooth, and iridescent like the inside of a cleaned oyster, soft pinks and blue pooling and then spreading out. Set in geometric blocks, the deep, rich wood paneling extended down from the borders of the ceiling and to the floor, a series of precise cuts meshing it with the marble tile, black with white veins. Through a set of closed doors was the main space of the restaurant, those tables ordered months in advance, and the clientele had whispered at the sight of Pegasus, his deep scarlet suit like a statement, a fresh chrysanthemum pinned to one lapel. Manjoume had caused his own whispers, Edo’s name inevitably following his own, making the sounds rise further.

Maybe he had enjoyed it, a smirk cutting in his face, but he wanted Judai’s eyes on him even more than that, and maybe he clenched his teeth a little whenever Judai turned away to laugh at one of Sho’s backhanded compliments or Johan’s stories, always given with wild gestures. If the static hadn’t been there, he would have-

“Wasn’t there…something you wanted?” he asked Judai, and at first there was only Judai’s low, rolling laugh.

“Hmmm. Well, for one thing, Yubel thinks that you should know about the guy with the camera. He’s using the window on the left.”

“I’ll have it taken care of,” he said, raising one hand and signaling the waiter. “I can’t imagine that the management will tolerate this blatant trespassing, especially when such an important guest is involved.”

Judai leaned his chin on his palm. Like Manjoume, he had left his collar open. “Huh, didn’t know you thought that highly of me…”

“I meant _myself_ , you moron.”

“Are you picking on Judai again?” Sho interrupted from his right, Manjoume at one end of the table and Pegasus at the other.

“Ah, don’t worry. I can handle it,” Judai replied, and that fucking _smile_ still made things blur together, Manjoume aware that he was staring hard. Even the flickers of Yubel didn’t stop it, the whisper of clicking scales and unfurling wings like a hand running over taut sheets, grasping at them. And Manjoume, stuck on _that_ thought, missed whatever Sho said next.

The night wore on, Yubel finding a second paparazzi and Pegasus proposing toast after toast, the courses rolling in and filling the table’s empty spaces. All of it was appealing, impossible to compare with the gunk that passed for take-out during his travels, like microwaved food packs that were always cold in the middle, but Manjoume found that caring about it was too much effort, took too much of his _focus_.

The alcohol had been a terrible idea.

Across the table, Pegasus gasped loudly at Johan's next story, cradling a full glass of red wine in one raised hand. That strong focus had remained in Ryo's eyes after his duel with Judai, and he had turned it on Johan next, the cat spirit eyeing him with suspicion, its long ears flicking back.

Sho had started listing Manjoume’s faults as a roommate, each point accompanied by a few examples, all extremely biased. His responses, given through gritted teeth, were enough to make Judai laugh, his eyes creasing at the corners. Sometimes Yubel's voice sounded as an echo, and those jagged flecks of green and orange would push through again.

Evidently, Judai hadn't bothered to have his new clothes tailored, not that Manjoume would have expected _that_ level of detail. The cuffs were too short. The belt was too casual, a simple strip of brown leather with a cheap buckle. The shirt itself could have been more modern, the collar too wide, the seams too thick. The pants should have been hemmed, the legs brought in below the knee.

But it didn't fucking matter. The contrast was there, the dark fabric of his shirt against golden skin, sliding over it, and Manjoume flinched when Sho rammed an elbow into his side.

“Hey! Are you even listening?!”

“No,” Manjoume stated, deadpan, and when Sho pouted, he added, “I’ve known you for a lot longer than I'd prefer to, Sho, and I don't think I've ever heard you say one valuable thing. Well, not including that one time you surrendered to me during the final round of the-”

“I-I didn't surrender!”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“Aniki, I hope you've realized what kind of roommate Manjoume-kun is,” Sho said suddenly, his elbows on the table. “I shouldn't have to mention how much he complains about everything, since that's probably obvious by now.”

Judai laughed again. “I'm...not sure how to answer that.”

“There’s only one correct answer, Judai,” Manjoume muttered. Under the table, he pressed his heel against Judai's ankle, just hard enough to be felt, and, unflinching, Judai let him, his perfect smile still in place.

And even that slight contact was dangerous, like drawing closer to the edge of a knife, waiting for the fall.

\---

For someone who hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours, signed several hundred photographs earlier that day, and endured multiple backhanded compliments from Pegasus J. Crawford, Manjoume thought that he deserved _some_ credit for not passing out the moment he closed the car door and leaned back against his seat, but Johan, next to him in the cramped four-door sedan that Sho was inordinately proud of, only tilted his head and asked, “You feeling okay?”

“That depends on how the Kaiser drives,” Manjoume replied, and when the car started, Sho riding shotgun and immediately launching into a speech about road signs, he was relieved that Ryo _actually_ knew what he was doing.

Pegasus had somehow convinced Judai to drive back with him, and the invitation had been for only one person, which left Manjoume shoved in the back of Sho's ugly car and sitting next to Johan, who looked like he wanted to say something important.

Damn it.

“So, you really don't have a problem with me hanging around J-”

“I wonder if you're really foolish enough to finish asking that question,” Manjoume began, staring out the window. In the dark, the streets were banded with orange streetlights, the falling rain catching the reds and whites of the passing cars.

Johan hummed to himself. “Huh. I guess we're cool then.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

The brothers continued as they were before, Ryo giving clipped, one-word answers while Sho rambled. Bored by the long conversations, the Ojamas had left hours ago, leaving only the rumble of the sleeping cat spirit's purr.

“When I was with Judai, I started to lose myself. It still happens sometimes, but it's not as intense this way. It...was like my thoughts were getting mixed up with his,” Johan explained, his voice even. “I've been seeing someone else for awhile now, and it's getting serious enough that I… Well, I guess you don't care about the details.”

“Not at all.”

“Ah, you're too straightforward sometimes,” Johan chided, and when Manjoume glanced over at him, he was smiling, his palm running over the spirit's back. “What I mean to say is that I'm rooting for you, one-hundred percent.”

Johan was honest, the spirit's paws slack with sleep, its tailing swishing absently. Manjoume said nothing.

Back at his apartment, he waited for Judai with a clouded head, his thoughts running in the same direction but still crashing together, their details colliding and then falling away. He left his overcoat on the table, the stark lining bright in the near-dark room. When the front door clicked open, he tilted his head back, Judai entering upside-down and at a sharp angle.

“What did that snake want?”

Shaking his head, Judai walked closer. His jacket was open. “Oh, the usual. World domination, harnessing demonic powers…”

“That's too much effort for someone like Pegasus,” Manjoume said, and he righted himself as Judai sat down, one arm swinging over the back of the couch. “I’d believe it if you told me he was dragging you into some tax evasion scheme, but that's about it. My brothers used to transfer their assets to me for that reason. Shoji even forged my signature a few times, as if I wouldn't find out.”

“Point taken, but, to tell you the truth, it wasn't anything serious. He just wanted another chance at a new portrait for Yubel. It...didn't go his way, although I did try to help out a little.”

“Dragons are notoriously stubborn, just like the duelists who wield them. Myself excluded, of course.”

“Well, _technically_ Yubel's a fiend-type monster, so...” Judai trailed off, and then his expression turned serious, thin lines between his eyebrows. “Your brothers were horrible to you, Manjoume.”

“Obviously, but…” Sighing, he ran a clawed hand through his hair, the strands coarse from the gel. “Forget it. That's not what I want to talk about.”

Judai waited for him to continue, sprawled on the other side of the couch, his feet on the coffee table. His slate grey pants crossed the strong muscles of his thighs, the belt a thin line over his narrow hips.

But it was always Judai's eyes that got to him the most, the way they raked over him and settled on his bared throat.

“Judai, how many cards are left?” Manjoume asked, and the whispers grew louder.

“Five,” Judai said, unflinching. “It sounds like a countdown, doesn't it?”

Manjoume leaned back, and Judai shifted closer, close enough that he could imagine crossing that distance so easily, Judai's mouth sliding over his own as calloused hands passed over his shoulders.

Fuck.

“I'm...not being fair to you like this,” Manjoume mumbled. “It's not just when I win a duel against you that I think about…” He couldn't fucking do it, aware of where Judai was, his spread fingers close. “Don't you dare let anyone rush you, and that...includes myself, of course.”

“You're not.”

“That's what I _want_ to hear from you, but I still…” He almost laughed, a harsh sound. “Judai, maybe you should try ignoring me, try to forget how I feel. How can this work when I'm so-?”

When Judai surged forward, he thought that the kiss might happen – Judai over him, even closer than before.

But it didn't, and he watched as their fingers were tangled together, Judai's locking between his own, their nails short and ending in jagged, half-moon shapes. The warmth there was undeniable, impossible to push away.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This long chapter clocks in at almost 9k, and I'm not really sure when I graduated from 4k-6k chapters...
> 
> This chapter was basically my attempt to work out some stuff established earlier in the fic, like Judai and Johan having adventures together, Ryo's health being an issue again, and the introduction of Ojama Red and Ojama Blue. It's...pretty obvious when I run with an idea, since that's how long chapters happen.
> 
> With Judai and Johan, I had the past!Spiritshipping planned when I started this fic (chapter 5 was actually the first I wrote, chapter 1 started after chapter 12), but I wasn't sure if it needed to be addressed directly. Here, I'm pulling a bit off the dynamics from S04E175, mainly the idea of Judai 'eclipsing' some part of Johan.
> 
> While I'm not going into it /too/ much, I did want to throw in a few mentions of Manjoume's strained relationship with his brothers, since I imagine that, given their success and influence, it could've caused problems for him early on.
> 
> ...I'm also going to stop this note before I ramble forever. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	15. Only Forward

\---

“You should really hire a nutritionist,” was the first thing Dr. Krenshaw said to him when he entered the lobby of the West Research Center the next morning, his medium black coffee a necessary component of his ‘headache prevention’ routine and _not_ optional. “Iron deficiency can result in dark circles, especially those that are more purple than grey.”

“After I publicly humiliate Edo Phoenix, I solemnly swear that I will reconsider my diet and cut back on the caffeine. But the order of events here is what’s important, in case you decide to misinterpret what I just said,” Manjoume replied, and, a solid presence at his side, Judai let out a low whistle.

“Manjoume without coffee… Sounds kinda scary, actually.”

“Shut up.”

To keep her research consistent, Dr. Krenshaw required regular sessions from him, and this one was shoved between an early-morning photo shoot, Judai still half-asleep when he had left, and a yet-another interview about Edo Phoenix, a subject that was _beginning_ to wear him down, the fervour climbing higher with each passing day. As they made for the elevator – Judai ogling the new fountain installed in the lobby, a mounted knight driving a spear down into a suspiciously Kaiba-esque dragon – she continued in the same level tone.

“From what you’ve told me about Bell, it seems that her integration into the Ojama’s society has been a clear success. What’s more, it hasn’t been necessary to repeat such drastic measures yet, as the alternatives have proven just as effective, if not more so because they don’t affect the dimensional barrier at all.”

“But we’re not here to talk about Judai, are we?”

“I…suppose not,” she admitted, and she looked at Judai over her shoulder, the long-time representative of Slifer Red _still_ examining the massive bronze knight, Winged Kuriboh flying in a spiral around its lance. “Although, I must admit, I was somewhat surprised that he couldn’t copy your technique as well as Johan could. The bonds between duelists and their decks vary, of course, and it seems like familial bonds are the easiest to work with. They’re more malleable, in a sense. Bonds of destiny and fate resist passing over the dimensional barrier, and they require further research on our part.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call the Ojamas my family,” Manjoume countered, and Ojama Yellow provided some unhelpful commentary from inside his front pocket, Ojama Blue relegated to another on the outside of his torn jacket.

When Dr. Krenshaw, for the first time in their months of experiments and speculative conversations, glared at him, Manjoume had to suppress a sudden flinch, and he expected it to be about the coffee.

It wasn’t.

“I had considered making a tentative classification system for spiritually sensitive duelists, but I soon realized that one person refused to fit its parameters – _you_ , Manjoume.” With a heavy sigh, she continued. “You’re right in that your bond with the Ojamas is unique, but that’s…not exactly convenient. So far, the only candidates who have successfully used their field spells to cross the barrier are duelists with familial bonds like Johan, which are exceptionally rare, and you. I wish there was a better category, but…” Another sigh, but then she straightened, the pink Funny Bunny pin at her collar swaying with the motion. “We can discuss this another time, as I understand your schedule is an issue at the moment.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Manjoume said, and it took both of his hands and the screeching of the Ojamas to drag Judai away from the statue, something boyish in his voice as he rambled about how the armor was taken from Gaia the Fierce Knight and the mount from Silver Fang. When they hit the fourteenth floor, Judai was still on the subject, now theorizing about why Curse of Dragon wasn’t chosen as the alternate mount.

“I mean, Gaia the Dragon Champion as been in print for awhile… It would make more sense than a beast-type monster that only had one fusion monster, and _that’s_ with Darkworld Thorns, not Gaia.”

“Have you ever considered the fact that Pegasus is a complete moron who doesn’t even remember his own cards?”

Judai pivoted and faced one of the security cameras in the hallway. “Uhhh. If you’re listening, that wasn’t me.”

Inside the laboratory, the spotless equipment was in its usual place, and as the assistants began to crowd his chair, Manjoume closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, the familiar grooves of this routine around him, closing in. In the nearing dark, he knew Judai was there, waiting in silence, but that was for another time.

The expedition to Ojama Village was short, something routine. Bell wore a brittle flower crown and ran in circles around him, her bushy tail leaving marks in the reddening dirt that always spread through the village, filling the cracks between loose stones. She rambled as she always did, and, kneeling down, he tried to listen, some words forming in-between the unknown chirps and beeps. Ojama Red and Ojama Blue had, typical of their nature, already started telling stories of their heroics, the details exaggerated, and Bell preened at the sound of them, her blue toes tapping the ground as she swayed.

He had taken Judai there yesterday, just as the rising sun had splayed its orange light over the houses below.

And, inhaling fast, he rose up from the examination chair, the room out of focus for a second, the details surging in as he blinked.

The hand on his bare shoulder belonged to Judai, and he leaned into it, the greys peeling away from the stark, clinical whites. The other colours followed.

“Hey, you up for another trip?” Judai asked, and it took awhile before Manjoume processed his words, his hand reaching for a take-away cup that had _mysteriously_ vanished.

“Depends on the scenery. I’ve had enough of huts and clay furniture.”

“Trust me, you’ll like it,” Judai said, his smile cryptic. “Just close your eyes-”

“Judai…”

“-and wait for my signal.”

And although he complained, Judai’s taunts _infuriating_ , Manjoume did go along with it. When his eyes slid shut, the chatter in the room changed, another voice given as a whisper.

“If I find out this is part of some joke,” Manjoume muttered as Judai's hand lifted, “there will be consequences for you. I know where you sleep.”

But he let the darkness push in, the sound of his own breathing rising above all others. The colours had bled out, and he was in that empty space again, the corridor between the worlds.

It was a matter of seconds, and then Judai's fingertips were passing over his own, the touch gentle, searching. They pressed harder when he flinched at the brush of something large and scaled against his back, like a coil of solid muscle, and soon Judai was pulling him forward, the space teeming with that unseen, unheard presence, a presence that spread and spread.

When he opened his eyes, he understood why Judai had only given one hand, the other held by someone else, their _guide_.

“Let me guess. Your flight was canceled.”

Johan had already stood up and stretched, the sky overheard a cerulean blue and pierced by grey mountains, the pale clouds gathered below their shallow peaks.

“How'd you figure that out?” Johan asked, and when a jeweled panther, the short fur solid and dappled with sunlight, stalked past him, he continued with an easy smile. “Actually, it's not so bad, since there's an inscription here I wanted to check out anyways, and the scientists can get some more readings from me. I just set a timer for thirty minutes, so I'll come find you guys when that's up.”

“Wait, hold on-”

“See yah!” And, with that, Johan took off after the cluster of beasts, leaving Manjoume on the bare ground and blinking at his turned back.

The card for Rainbow Ruins did not do it justice, the tiered seats of a Roman amphitheatre rising up from the central plaza, the bare stones set in a rigid, geometric form. Against the blue of the sky, the fluted columns shone like polished crystals, and they continued in straight lines from the amphitheatre, eventually taken in by the thick clouds bordering the mountains, their contours dashed with the whites and greys of distant structures.

The chatter of the Crystal Beasts echoed, a sound from the depths of the ruins.

“Pretty cool, right?” Judai remarked, and Manjoume picked himself off the ground, the thin dust below untouched, passing under his transparent hands.

To reach Ojama Country, he had struggled in those early days, the sensation of being ripped away from his body terrifying, like he was about to drown without a throat, submerged under the encroaching darkness.

“What a show-off. When I get back, I'm challenging Johan to a duel. Arrogance like that needs to be kept in check.”

“Uhhh… Maybe you should take your own advice first,” Judai said, and he dodged Manjoume's swing at his arm. “Also, you have that...thing later. The...interview?”

With a deep sigh, Manjoume turned on his heel. “Why do you have to be right about that?”

Preserved with delicate care, the tiered seats were swept clean of the lingering dust. A rainbow cut through the blue sky, curving before diving down into the distant mountains, dividing them. As he walked higher, more ruins emerged. Half-formed columns and the foundations of ancient houses extended down the hillside, connected by stone roads. The statues had lost their features.

From the front row, Judai was watching him.

“In Roman society, those seats would have been reserved for aristocrats and other members of the upper class,” Manjoume said as he approached, his hands in his pockets. Judai leaned back, braced on his elbows.

“So… You're telling me to move?”

“If you care about historical accuracy at all.” Pointedly, Manjoume took a seat on Judai's right, an eyebrow arched. “A few rows back would be acceptable for someone like you.”

“In that case, I think you're the one who should move,” Judai replied with a taunting smirk, Yubel-like. Something barbed moved in his shadow. “Not to brag, but I _was_ a king in a past life.”

When Manjoume put on a scowl, aware that Yuki fucking Judai had just countered him, Judai let out a sharp laugh, almost like a bark, and clutched his ribs.

“N-No way…. That _worked_ on you?”

From there, they continued through the stone brackets, down the roads that carved even lines into the hillside. The Ojamas had stayed behind, and his footsteps echoed.

“So, was this your idea?”

Judai shrugged. “Let’s just say it was a group effort.”

He stopped at the edge of a rocky overlook, the landscape below a vast plateau veined with grey stone, the ruined houses scattered and with wildflowers teetering on their shattered forms.

“I used to travel with my family,” he said, and then, with a sudden flinch, he realized what the _fuck_ had just happened.

But Judai only nodded. In the real world, their shadows would have crossed.

“That...was before you knew me, obviously,” Manjoume added after a long pause. Eagles drifted overhead, their cries like struck bells. “Sometimes my brothers would sneak out of our hotel, and I would end up following them. No nannies, no bodyguards, no parents… You get the picture.”

“Huh. Sounds like fun,” Judai commented, and it had been like that – Shoji taking the lead, guiding them through narrow marketplace streets and rambling about the landmarks that loomed in the distance, always further away than he had expected. The crowds were thin at the end of the day, but they still passed under the arms of adults to skip the short lines.

They were always caught.

“Chosaku would take the blame for it, since he was untouchable anyways. One of the perks of being the oldest, I guess.” He stepped back, and Judai was looking at him, waiting. “All of that was a long time ago. Doesn't matter anymore.”

“I traveled a lot as a kid too, but probably not as far.” Judai shrugged. “I used to get these nightmares, and my parents would take me to this medical facility or...maybe it was a university? It was a two-hour drive, and my dad would take time off work for it.”

“Councillor Shepard told us about the nightmares.”

Judai smiled. “The treatment used something like a MRI machine. It made this loud noise, like someone hitting a drum. I pretended that I was being abducted by aliens or something. Made the time pass faster.”

Manjoume said nothing, the landscape below shifting as a low cloud passed over it, the curved shadows bringing in dark greys.

“The best part was that we'd stop at restaurants I'd never been to before, plus I'd get to order whatever I wanted. Guess I turned out spoiled,” Judai said, shrugging again, and Manjoume could have kissed him, but he didn't. He stood in place, the echoes from the ruins reaching them, Johan's bright laugh like a bright colour, and maybe he had been in love with Judai for a long time, long enough that the hearing about those nightmares had hurt the first time, those words digging into him, testing him.

“Judai, I…”

“What is it?”

He spoke slowly, carefully. “That's how you approach things, isn't it? Always looking for the dark in the light, the light in the dark. It sounds exhausting.”

“Hmm. It's not so bad,” Judai stated, and he walked past Manjoume, closer to the edge. The nape of his neck was bare, the worn collar of his red coat folded down. “For example, today we don't have much time together, but I get to make you dinner later, so it's not so bad.”

“I'll be back late, after ten.”

“No problem. I can adjust.” Judai leaned forward, the bronze pendant around his neck swinging. The slope of his shoulders was familiar, memory placing them in front of a surging blue ocean. “It's like how letting the spirits go leaves these holes in my head, those memories suddenly gone and the voices… Well, you get the idea.”

“Judai…”

“But I can keep my thoughts straight now. That counts for something, right?”

It felt like they were alone, the echoes fading away, the stoic ruins silent. Sun-bleached stone. Statues marked by the rain.

He was the one who stepped closer, and he ran his hands down Judai's arms, the thick fabric resisting. But Judai was the one who brought them together, his arms going around Manjoume's waist, his face buried next to his neck. And, breathing in, Manjoume leaned into the contact, the seconds passing and passing still, fading like the shadows as the clouds surged past. Light spilled through their gaps.

Judai's next breath was louder than the static, and his mouth almost touched skin.

Almost.

“If we're spilling our guts right now, then maybe this will interest you,” Manjoume whispered, and his palms went over Judai's shoulders, down the knotted plane of his back. Maybe it was love. What a fucking _thought._ “Johan could lock me in this dimension for a month, and a part of me wouldn't even care. This duel with Edo, it's one _chance_ against his deck. The pressure is…more than just annoying. I hate it, Judai.”

Fingers ran over his hair, parting the short ones over the nape of his neck.

“It's okay.”

“No, it's _not **.**_ ”

“Manjoume,” Judai began, “It's okay. Trust me.”

“You…” Manjoume trailed off, and then he broke away, a hand already raking through his too-long bangs. They dropped over his eyes. “You say those things so easily. Didn't you hear what _I_ said?”

“Sure, but I know who you are. There's only one Manjoume Thunder!”

Even now, breathing hard, something raw turning in his chest, Judai could change him. He felt himself grin.

Damn it.

Johan found them back in the amphitheatre, standing in the center and facing each other. His monster cards were in his hands, and Judai nodded along as he explained the problems with them, that fucking _knot_ in his deck. The balance was off.

“But it's still your deck, right?” Judai said suddenly, nodding at Johan. Manjoume expected him to continue, but he didn't, the Crystal Beasts pouring in and running around the arena, racing as if chariots were behind them.

\---

And maybe he was _somewhat_ relieved that even Edo Phoenix, the most in-demand duelist from their generation, was surprised by the response to their upcoming duel. Seven days before its start, Edo sent him a text message, characteristically arrogant.

 

**PHOENIX [04:05]: hey. dont mess this up.**

 

Manjoume _would_ have preferred more groveling from Edo, maybe in the form of a handwritten letter that addressed him as “Manjoume-senpai”.

His response been simple.

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [05:56]: focus on yourself**

 

But it had meant nothing.

Days and nights melded together. They felt the same as he traveled down long hallways, blinked the sleep out of his eyes as artificial lights bored down. The staff around him dealt with the shifting timezones, fans waiting for him at international airports, some lingering by his gates, and he slept whenever he could, immediately awake at the sound of an intercom or the jerk of a stopping car.

And maybe some part of him was being worn down slowly, down until his chest felt hollow, until his breaths felt raw and shallow.

He almost forgot an interviewer’s name, Misako saving him by a scrawling it across her hand. It was a rookie mistake, one he _should_ have outgrown.

But Edo continued with that perfect, controlled ease, giving broad smiles as he answered repetitive question after repetitive question and laughing at the same tired jokes, too fucking _perfect_ even though Edo had to sleep less than he did.

Edo did _more_ than him, and the polls for Duel Network put the top-ranked duelist at a massive advantage, 85% expecting his victory in the first ten turns. When Edo started wearing deep, blood-red suits instead of those in slate grey or peacock blue, the rumors went into overdrive, as if it meant anything _but_ Edo being bored enough to stoke those fires even higher. Before each match, Edo would flip over the first five cards in his deck before shuffling them back in, a habit he had developed since becoming the world's first. Sometimes his knuckles were bandaged.

That deck had never lost an official match in two years, never when the spotlights were on.

Sometimes Manjoume found himself scrolling to a familiar number and starting a call, Judai yawning when it was too early, his words muffled by the pillow. Their calls usually ended on the subject of his deck, as Judai had been tasked with learning how to play a copy of Edo’s and then challenging him with it. Every round had been a disaster for Manjoume, the Ojamas falling _fast_ and letting those devastating attacks slip through. Judai would stop before he asked for it.

Sometimes Manjoume clicked the screen off instead of making the call, steadying himself, breathing in, and the cities would pass as blurs.

In its current state, Edo's spell-heavy deck relied on its graveyard, and its monster cards, like the two copies of Disk Commander and three of Malicious, were usually heated subjects of debate in the dueling world.

Edo had abandoned Clock Tower Prison, and he now struck with the kind of ease that came across as taunting, as that of a predator swiping carelessly at its stunned prey. Dangerous and Dystopia were common fusions for him, drawing out purple shadows as they crawled over the field, rising from it to booming cheers. Plasma lurked somewhere behind them, rarely played but always embodied by the transparent, thin curls of congealed blood that clung to Edo's cards but didn't stain the hands that drew them.

Manjoume's own deck lacked that presence, the one of a battle-stained axe, and maybe he felt it now more than ever, his rare time alone spent agonizing over its imperfect balance, always tilting closer and closer to defeat. He couldn't accept it, the balance tilting like that.

He tried not to think about it, but he failed again and again. 

If Edo's cards hit their marks, cleaving through to an absolute victory and taking his life points, sinking them, then _he_ could be-

“We're going to the hotel next,” Misako stated as she sat next to him and slammed the van door shut.

“That's not necessary.”

“Huh. You really have forgotten what day it is,” she observed, and for a terrifying second, ice streaking through his veins, he thought that the duel was _here_ , _now._

His confusion must have showed through, as Misako, sighing to herself, gave him a pointed look, the sympathy clear.

“Think if it as a surprise, Thunder.”

In Domino City, he always ended up at the same hotel, the glass tinted green from the outside, and the structure rose higher than the others around it, spanning up as if to pierce the nearing clouds. The cameras were outside, and, closing his eyes, he let Misako straighten his lapels and push his hair back, the longest pieces dragging across his jawline. He could have slept there, but when the door slid open, he was already heading out, hitting the pavement and striding for the doors with his shoulders back, a well-practiced scowl etched into his face. As a matter of ‘courtesy’, security guards in every corner, the media stayed outside, and his next footsteps echoed through the still lobby – its surfaces banded with gold, its sudden quiet like something tangible passing over him.

He hadn’t forgotten about it, not even when the exhaustion pressed in further than it did now.

Although he _had_ forgotten what the date was, and if he was lucky, then Judai wouldn’t tease him about it. He had fucked up the sum at some point, his count two days off.

Instead, Judai walked closer, took his arm, and dragged him _somewhere_. They stopped in what looked like a maintenance hallway, narrow and smelling of sharp chemicals. Dented tiles marked the floor, and, blinking fast, Manjoume looked at the person over him, a hand still on his arm.

“W-What the fuck, Judai?!”

The details came in slowly – Judai’s red jacket, new to him but already torn at the sleeves. The bronzed pendant dangled over his chest, still while Manjoume’s own rose and fell fast, each breath rasping up his tight throat. Yubel’s scales were held in. The strength holding him there was only Judai’s, and Manjoume ripped his arm out of that grip, aware that his hands were shaking. _He_ was shaking.

Judai asked him a simple question.

“Why are you dueling Edo?”

And, staggering back, he burst out laughing, a harsh, fractured sound. “What are you _saying_? W-Why am I…?” He trailed off, his next laugh louder, harder. “I’m not a coward, Judai. If I’ve agreed to a duel, then it’s _going_ to happen. I’d dare anyone to try and stop me.”

“Is that your honest answer?”

“Obviously.”

Judai paused. He looked away. “If that’s how it is, you should quit now.”

Silence.

Stunned, Manjoume stood in place, the beating of his heart loud, louder still. The first sentence he tried to form broke apart, like shards of glass in his mouth. A brittle thing had shifted.

The anger came next.

“You agreed to help me. So, tell me, how _exactly_ are you supporting me now? What kind of statement is…” His hands clawed, and Judai met his glare, held it. “This is the ultimate opportunity for me. It’s…the _chance_ I’ve been chasing for all of these years. You…have to understand.”

“I understand.”

“Then _how_ could you...?”

It must have looked strange – Judai grabbing his arm and taking him out of the lobby. _Him_ , one half of the most discussed exhibition duel of the year, and it hadn’t even _happened_ yet. Just days were left. Then, it would be hours, minutes.

Seconds.

“I’ve been waiting for this.” Judai said nothing, and Manjoume breathed in, unsteady. “I know I can rise to somewhere higher than this. I haven't lived up to my stage name yet, the one I've chosen to keep for so long.”

“And that's why you're dueling Edo?”

There was only one answer he could give, and he shook his head, frowning. “It's...a necessary part of it.” At Judai's silence, he continued. Something mechanical whined in the distance. “But, obviously, I would duel Edo even if it counted for nothing. His deck has let him control the tempo of so many duels. How could I let him get away with that?”

And that's when Judai laughed, a warm, rolling sound. He leaned back, one hand on the back of his head and then dragging down over his jacket's collar. “As a fan of the great Manjoume Thunder, that's just what I wanted to hear!”

Clicking his teeth, Manjoume straightened to his full height.

“Oh? You weren't acting like a fan of mine earlier, _especially_ not like a coach. Maybe you're the one acting dishonest, not me.”

“Ah, that's...not it,” Judai replied, his voice hesitant. That hand was on the back of his neck again. A boarding pass was shoved in his front pocket. “Maybe I was too direct. Sorry.”

“More like indirect…”

“What?”

“You’re such an idiot sometimes,” Manjoume snapped, and Judai just smiled at him. “It _should_ be obvious that I'm going to enjoy this duel, or have you really forgotten who I am?”

And then the distance between them thinned, Judai taking a step closer, and Manjoume let his chin be tilted back, Judai's coarse fingers then flitting over his face, settling just below his wide eyes. A bright smile. Even brighter eyes.

“I get that the dark circles are part of your look, but maybe you should still sleep a little more.”

“Shut up…”

“Hey, I'm being serious.”

“Just don't poke my eye out,” Manjoume mumbled, and Judai's fingers lifted slowly, careful as if something could shatter. The moment turned and turned.

\---

In the hotel lobby, he found Misako lounging on a white sofa and flipping through a creased copy of _Duel Pro: The Interview Edition,_ Edo Phoenix on the cover. As far as Manjoume was concerned, that _barely_ counted as research, and he strode over to her with his hands on his hips, Judai somewhere behind him.

“Some security you turned out to be! No questions? No phone calls?”

“He wasn't a kidnapper,” Misako said, staring intently at the next page.

“How would _you_ know that?!”

“Two reasons come to mind. The first is Yuki Judai won the recent exhibition duel at the university tournament that you attended, and I recognized him from the video footage. The second,” she added, glancing up, “is that the background on your personal phone is currently set to a picture of the same person.”

While he stood there like an idiot, Misako rolled up her magazine, hefted her bag on her shoulder, and then, fast enough to make him flinch, handed Judai a file folder, which raised the question of how _much_ Judai had just heard.

Damn it.

“We can save our introductions for another time, as I must take a call now. In there, you'll find a copy of Thunder's schedule, a prepaid card for your personal use, and the keycard for your room here,” she explained, and, with a curt bow, she took off across the lobby.

Because Manjoume was preoccupied, trying to come up with an excuse in case a certain graduate from Slifer Red asked to borrow his phone, Judai got the first word in.

“Guess we should head up. You ready?”

He nodded, and he recognized the well-worn bag that Judai then picked off the floor.

After the elevator opened, he led Judai to the suite, his own at the opposite end of the hallway, and Winged Kuriboh coo-ed at their surroundings while Judai rotated with every step, his head craned back. “How many chandeliers does this place need?”

“It's to create an atmosphere, Judai.”

“Kinda unnecessary…”

Manjoume snorted. 

After he took Judai's keycard and tapped the door, the lock sliding with an audible click, he stepped back. He raised an eyebrow.

“You go first. I want to see your reaction.”

“...Okay?” Judai replied.

He dropped his bag by the door, Winged Kuriboh hooting in surprise, and Manjoume entered next. He closed the open door.

Three of the four walls in the first room were panes of glass, floor to ceiling. The city was splayed out below, a grey-blue spread over it and extending until the horizon, as if the shard-like buildings could meld with the sky. In the historical district, the hotel tower rose above all others, and the new Kaiba Corp arena, double the capacity of any he had dueled in before, shone like a pale, smooth rock at the bottom of a clear river, like something other than a billion-dollar symbol of power, something small.

Judai stood by the window, still, and Manjoume understood why, that effect even stronger in the early morning, when red would streak across the sky.

Except for the mirrored layout, the suite itself was similar to Manjoume's own, all red-dark mahogany, gold trim, and immaculate white fabric. The angles were rigid, not a chair out of place. Of the four rooms, the first was the largest, a series of couches spread around where Judai stood, his expression unreadable.

“I'm...not used to getting special treatment at a place like this,” Judai said, his eyes locked on the cityscape below.

“What? You want a cheaper room instead? I can arrange that. Leaky roof, broken mattress…”

“Sounds like Slifer Red.”

“Don't remind me of that place,” Manjoume muttered. “Also, in case you're _curious_ , this isn't special treatment for the coach of a high-profile duelist like myself. Anything less than this would be an insult to me.”

“Ah, I see…” Judai leaned back, and it took Manjoume longer than that to connect the scattered pieces. He watched Judai move through the rooms, the few comments always given with the same low, slanted smirk. While they were arguing about _something_ , Judai took off his jacket and threw it over the nearest chair, and as it slid down, it opened, the inside just the same creased red material. No added compartments. Nothing else.

The silence bored in.

Judai's profile was a stark line, and something in Manjoume's chest ached.

“It's...just you, Judai.”

Sometimes Judai had answered the phone while rushing to a meeting with another duelist, always one he had met during his travels. Sometimes, it had been while members from the team at Industrial Illusions talked in the background.

Sometimes, it had been while Judai, exhaustion thick in his voice, sprawled across that familiar couch, and, sometimes, he would start to fall asleep. And, like that, Manjoume would hold the phone to his ear for a long time, aware of that brittle thing between them. Taken in by the spirits, Judai's widened eyes had sparked and flickered like dying candles, like they could so easily burn out, and the whispers had been audible, a grating static, the cracks of that fire as it burned lower and lower.

When Judai leaned back, a hand running through his hair, the buckles on his deck holster creaked. Their eyes met.

“Yeah, it's just me.”

“Okay.”

“Although, _technically_ it's me and Yubel, so…”

“Yubel doesn't count,” Manjoume said, and Judai laughed. He should have continued. He wanted to.

This was Judai, himself again.

“I guess the timing worked out, since I've now got all the headspace I need to focus on your duel, so…” He shrugged. “Maybe I should increase my fee!”

“Judai…”

“Hmm? What's up?”

“Y-You're actually…” Trailing off, Manjoume stepped back. He tried again. “You've done the right thing. Don't forget that.”

“I won't. Trust me.”

Outside, a deeper blue was sinking into the corners of the cityscape, and his schedule would continue in an hour or so, enough time to change for an exclusive dinner with his sponsors and a collection of executives, all veneers and shallow, rigid flattery. It would extend late into that night, probably ending at some high-end bar with himself holding the same glass for several hours and trying not to yawn.

It felt unfair.

It felt like something he could cast off, and Judai glanced away, rubbing his neck again. Awkward. Hesitant.

Manjoume was more than just curious.

“It was a pretty long flight here, so I had some time to think. Pegasus made me another offer, and it's more contract work, sort of like what Johan's doing. Traveling around, finding duel spirits, working on research projects… Stuff like that.”

“You're giving Industrial Illusions valuable data,” Manjoume said. “Obviously they'd want to hold onto you for that reason.”

“I'd like to think it's because of my charming personality,” Judai stated, his smile turning. “But, you know, I'll take what I can get. There's some travel involved, although it's nothing compared to what you're doing lately.”

“I'm not the current subject.”

“Well…” Judai glanced away again, and Manjoume ignored the rumble of his phone, probably Misako reminding him to shower and put on a clean suit.

“Just spit it out.”

“Alright, alright…”

Judai straightened, and Yubel passed as a frayed shadow.

“I'm giving you the first move, Manjoume. You waited for me, and now I'm going to wait for you, if that's what you want from me.”

At first, he did nothing, aware that he _should_ say something, but the words were gone. The decision came to him next, and Manjoume took out his phone, swiped to the still-open conversation with Misako, and entered the few characters he needed to cancel the dinner. Maybe the heads of his agency would complain, but fuck that.

“Err…. Manjoume?”

“This hotel tower has ten restaurants and three dedicated bars, so pick one. Although, given the current state of your appearance,” Manjoume added, and Judai flinched as his eyes raked across the faded jeans and worn black t-shirt, “room service might be a more, ah, _appropriate_ option. That is, unless you have a suit jacket shoved in that poor excuse for a travel bag.”

“I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“Typical,” Manjoume said, and then Judai laughed.

“Ah, well…” While Manjoume typed a curt response to Misako, Judai tilted his head back and made a very stupid observation, _so_ stupid that Manjoume let out a deep sigh. “Although, that does sound like a date, doesn’t it?”

“I already have a very low estimate of your intelligence, and I would hate to lower it even further.”

“Is…that a ‘yes’?”

With another sigh, Manjoume clicked the screen off and snapped, “Really, Judai? It wouldn’t even be the first, since I _think_ taking me to see those ruins counts as one. Plus, there was the thing at the duel market.”

“H-Hey, those weren’t-”

But it wasn’t long until Judai, more jet-lagged than he let on, picked out a few things from the sprawling menu, and Manjoume ordered even more than that. The dining table had been set for eight – a colossal block of reclaimed wood, a ‘statement piece’ in the otherwise sleek space. They moved two armchairs and a side table by the window instead, Judai’s feet somehow ending up in his lap. Outside, yellow lights sprawled across the dark cityscape, and the silence fit them now, broken by the slight whispers of Judai’s breaths, languid, and the rattle of Manjoume’s deck holster as he shifted. He fell asleep after Judai did.

He started at the first burst of sunlight, breaking over the rigids of the city, and even as he stared at hard angles of Judai’s jaw, at the deep motion of his chest, he knew that his schedule was closing in, the next meeting one he couldn’t cancel if he wanted to.

He wanted to, but he stood up instead. Having slept in his dress shirt and slacks, they were each branded with deep creases, and his hair would be worse, an armchair far from ideal. To wake up Judai, Manjoume prodded him in the ribs.

“Go to bed for a few hours,” Manjoume ordered, and Judai blinked up at him, bangs disheveled. “Your neck will thank me for it.”

Staggering to his full height, Judai yawned into his hand. “Whatever you say. Where was that again?”

“Your left. It’s after the divider.”

“Ah, right,” Judai said, and, unblinking, he looked at Manjoume. “So, you’re coming with me?”

Slapping a hand over his face, Manjoume pivoted on his heel and tried not to lose his mind at six in the fucking morning. “N-No,” he stated, and it sounded so _weak_ , enough that he cleared his throat. “Unlike you, I have a panel of officials waiting to clear me. Another precaution of dueling Edo fucking Phoenix. He’s a kid acting like an emperor.”

“Yeah, that’s a problem,” Judai said through another yawn, and Manjoume did not turn around. Too unfair.

“I need a shower,” he muttered, and when he made for the door, Judai added yet-another unnecessary comment, this one almost stopping him in place. His face burned.

“Just use mine. It’s the same, isn’t it?”

“D-Do you have _any_ shame?” Manjoume snapped, and Judai laughed, almost apologetic. “Whatever, I'll… I-I'll be back here at eleven, so have your deck ready by then. Set an alarm or something.”

Presumably Judai had followed his orders, and, back in his own hotel room, Manjoume stripped off the stiff fabric of his day-old clothes and turned the shower on full, the hot water working at the knots buried in his shoulders, his neck. By all accounts, it was nothing less than a certified _miracle_ that the Ojamas had stayed asleep for so long, as the last thing he needed was those morons pestering him.

Closing his eyes, he leaned his forehead against the warm tiles, the rising steam easy to sink into. And maybe he had messed up earlier, not even looking over before he had left Judai's room.

Manjoume Thunder did not get nervous, but Manjoume Jun did.

The water drummed against his back, and the steam was thick when he opened his eyes, his hair hanging in thick clumps, the old product slowly washed out. He should have set it to cold, enough to make his teeth clench. Like this, it was too fucking easy, the warmth like that of a body tight against his back. He had imagined it before, what it would _feel_ like to have Judai over him, those strong thighs bracketing his own. The sting of guilt had always come next, and the shame would follow that.

And, seized by something like determination, he turned the water off, breathing hard. If he closed his eyes, even for a moment, the heat came rushing back. It probably wouldn't take long, not when he thought about the person across the hall, the person he-

“Get it together, Thunder,” he muttered to himself. He slapped a hand over his forehead, and he moved it up to shove his wet hair back. “7:15, the officials. 9:45, the fanmeeting. 2:30, the…”

The duel with Edo was tomorrow night, primetime and aired live. Duel Network had obtained exclusive contracts for a worldwide release.

When he closed the door to his hotel room, his off-grey suit under his signature coat, Misako was already in the hallway and walking towards him.

\---

The meeting with the officials went just as expected – mind-numbingly dull. The fanmeeting was the exact opposite, and, much to Misako's annoyance, the cards, posters, and assorted gifts barely fit in the back of the van, some spilling over to the back and front seats. Manjoume had ended up with three bouquets tucked under one arm, each from a different fansite master. All were blue, his official colour.

“Two separate cars would've been more efficient,” Misako grumbled as she slammed her door. “The oversight is my fault, Thunder. I apologize.”

“That's unnecessary,” he said, although the cardboard digging into his side was _somewhat_ annoying, not enough for him to admit it. The Ojamas, including Red and Blue, clumsily sorted through the packages, most destined for the reception area at his agency or donation. Nothing would be thrown out, and he would rather fail than allow such disrespect to tarnish his name.

He watched as Ojama Yellow, shrieking, began to read out a card covered with heart stickers, Ojama Blue frowning in confusion while Ojama Red cackled.

“Don't you imbeciles have anything better to do?” he snapped, and Ojama Yellow stopped, blinking widely.

“Uhhhh…. Not really.”

“We're resting up for the big show,” Ojama Black commented, puffing out his chest. “Us Ojamas have to put on our best performance ever!”

“I-If we can…” Ojama Blue whined, hunched over. “F-F-For some of us, this is our d-debut…”

“Ah, cheer up!” Ojama Red, who seemed to have the emotional sensitivity of a rock, slapped Ojama Blue on the back, sending him flying across the van. “There’s only, like, fifty-thousand people in the arena, which is way less than the people watching on their tvs. That's like...in the millions. Wait, billions? Maybe? Uhhh….”

“You're not helping him,” Manjoume said, Ojama Blue already crawling into the pocket of his coat. “And you're not helping yourself by acting like that, Blue. Just remember that you're cards in _my_ deck, and that's all you should focus on. Anything else is a waste of time.”

Because he did something that, in the words of Ojama Yellow, was “so like their beloved boss,” the Ojamas burst into tears and crowded him, their hideous faces puckered up as water shot everywhere, _thankfully_ intangible and not dripping all over his suit. When he slashed at the air, they popped back into their cards. The plastic wrapping on the flowers crinkled.

“Misako, there's...something I should have told you about earlier. I'm the one who should apologize,” he said slowly, and she looked at him, her phone screen off. On theme, her earrings were of his insignia, a cool grey-blue. “Throwing a scandal on you would be...unforgivable, on my part. Not that it _should_ be a scandal, but-”

“What is it?” she asked, focused.

“I…” He should have practiced it first, maybe thought about it longer than during the pauses between signatures. Black criss-crossed his palm, like slanted characters. “I’m in a relationship now. Well, I think. It's...complicated.”

“Congratulations.”

“Look, I know that every major Pro League duelist goes through a dating scandal, like some outdated rite of passage that keeps coming back. As if anyone should even care about that…”

“The public is curious about the lives of celebrities. There's nothing surprising about it,” Misako replied, level. She continued. “I imagine there will be some interest expressed by the general public, in addition to your fanbase, but that can be controlled by your management team. Realistically speaking, it can only boost your image.”

A frown crossed his face.

“Let's drop the subject.”

“I apologize if I was too direct.”

“Don't,” Manjoume said quickly, and he leaned back into his seat. Outside, the depths of the city were around them, shops stacked on each other. Competing signs. Narrow sidewalks. “To be honest, there are still some things I need to discuss with hi-... With the other person.”

“Of course.”

The hotel tower jutted up from the maze of buildings below it, and he stopped when he entered the lobby, Judai on one of the sleek all-white chairs and talking fast with another hotel guest, a businessman with a cheap suit, an unfamiliar deck being passed between them. Manjoume strode over to them – his coat over his shoulders, the bundle of flowers under his arm, his eyes cold as they raked over the unfamiliar person. The businessman flinched, and he took his deck back as Judai glanced up, all white teeth and curved dimples.

Stupid Judai.

“Ah, someone's late,” Judai said, teasing, and then he noticed Manjoume's stare, _maybe_ harsher than it needed to be. “Oh! This is Akiyama-san, and he's got a fairy-type deck that uses Athena as its ace monster. Pretty cool.”

Immediately, 'Akiyama-san’ stuttered out an excuse and took off across the lobby, and Manjoume raised an eyebrow. Faster than expected.

“Scary… You should use that power wisely, Manjoume.”

“We need to talk,” he said, and then he headed for the elevators, Judai at his heels. Apparently he had already played as a tourist in Domino City, a museum stamp on the back of his right hand.

Manjoume opened the door of his hotel room, and Judai followed without him asking. The door closed.

He turned around.

“Have you even considered what it means to be with someone like me? The traveling, the media, the attention…” Pushed together, the plastic wrapping the flowers crackled. “I…would understand if you needed more time.”

Judai smiled. “Well, I've already been recognized today, from the tournament we did with Asuka.” Maybe his expression showed too much, as Judai quickly waved his hands and then added, “W-Which I'm fine with, by the way. I can handle it, no problem! I mean, I basically get to be famous without putting in the effort.”

“Judai…”

“Maybe I get free stuff this way… People do that for celebrities, right? What about the boyfriends of celebrities? I think that's close enough,” Judai declared.

“It's not that simple,” Manjoume said as he dropped the plastic bag slung over his elbow on the table, its contents premade onigiri and canned coffee – a far-cry from the molecular-gastronomy-meets-traditional-French-and-traditional-local-dishes menu from the night before. The flowers were next, deep blue lilies against electric teal roses. Without asking, he had taken his cards out, shuffling them in short, fast motions.

Judai put a hand on his shoulder, and that stopped him.

“How about we make this interesting?” Judai asked, and Yubel showed as a curl of molten orange, a flicker of something bright. “If I win, then you have to _try_ and let me handle the attention myself, okay? Oh, and maybe I'll have you relax a little. Try sleeping in for once.”

“Not everything can be reduced to a bet on the outcome of a card game, Judai. You should've learned that by now,” Manjoume muttered.

“Think of it as a sign that I'm okay with this. Plus, you can ask me to do something stupid if you win, so…?”

“When I win,” Manjoume began, “you will swear never to call me 'Jun-chan’ or anything similar ever again, under pain of death.”

“...Huh. High stakes.” With one final, lasting press, Judai's hand lifted, and his smile was even brighter.

Converted into a makeshift duel arena, the massive wooden dining table served its purpose, and Judai dueled while stuffing one of the onigiri into his mouth. At the first turn, Manjoume recognized his mistake, indignant that he had missed something so _obvious_ , and each attack Judai made went through, cards sliding and turning.

High stakes were what Judai liked best.

When he missed the special summoning condition for the Green Baboon in his hand, he could have slapped himself for acting like an amateur. When he let Ojama Blue stay _in_ his hand for three turns, he almost knocked his head against the table, and he lost without taking a single one of Judai's life points. Undeniable. Absolute.

“Jun-chan?”

“Shut up,” he muttered against the wood surface, and he flinched when a hand ran through his styled hair, the touch gentle, careful. Judai had short nails.

In just over twenty-four hours, the lights would be on him, a searing pressure. His faults could show like stark characters, like deep stains.

Fuck.

“So, the DCU has this exhibit on ritual monsters… Pretty sure they're open late, if you've got time.” Judai's hand rounded the crown of his head, continued down. “Or...we could stay here. I'm liking this 'room service’ idea, but maybe let's skip the sea urchin this time.”

“Some of us have a schedule to follow,” Manjoume grumbled, already counting the hours. Twenty-seven, minus a few minutes. Then the seconds. “And don't even ask because I can't cancel any of this. It's impossible.”

With a sigh, Judai ruffled his bangs, an action that had Manjoume raising himself up from the table and batting that hand away. This block of his schedule, practice with his 'coach’, would end soon, and he drained another can of black coffee, the taste metallic.

“Look,” he began, his elbows on the table and between his fallen cards, his graveyard in a short pile, “I already know what you're about to say, so save it. After I've clipped the wings on that annoying, arrogant little phoenix, then I can…stop this.”

Judai shuffled his deck, Elemental Heroes against Neo-Spacians. “How about we try that again? Let's just say it was a 'trial run’.”

Even the Ojamas had started jeering, Yellow piping up with an unnecessary critique of his last duel. He gathered his own cards quickly, their edges slipping through his fingers, his hands, but that energy changed when Judai played his first card. Their eyes were locked.

A duel could be like a conversation, and this one began with the spark of a fusion, the card for Flame Wingman set in attack position. When against an Ojama deck, the effect lost its usual edge, and Judai knew that.

He had to.

“You're toying with me, aren't you?” Manjoume said, growled. He drew one card, Ojama Blue. “You shouldn't aggravate a person with my reputation.”

Judai was all grins. “Oh? What reputation is that?”

“I'll show you.” His reply came as a field clear, and he announced every turned card, his moves precise. While Pegasus was an egotistical fool, essentially a figurehead who occasionally stepped out of place and threw his power around like the toy that it was, he _had_ – maybe by accident – released two useful cards, Ojama Blue and Red working in tandem. The brothers resented his divided attention, Yellow complaining the loudest, each shrill whine like a nail driven into his skull, but he kept playing, his counters immediate. The Neo-Spacians started to fall. He tore their field away from them.

“I end my turn,” he said, Ojama King on his side.

Normally, Judai would set a brutal pace for their duels – his moves immediate, determined – but Manjoume had finally taken over, and after drawing, Judai stopped to stare at his cards, his eyes narrowed. Yubel drifted behind them, and purple-black scales then flickered over Judai's knuckles before running down his wrists, their lines like those of faded tattoos.

“Seems like I've cornered the last great hope for Slifer Red,” Manjoume drawled. “I expected more of a challenge. Not sure why.”

At first, Judai did not reply, his eyes locked on the cards. The focus there only increased, shards of green and orange spreading through the brown, piercing it. Without the static, the whispers of those trapped spirits, Manjoume could hear the slight rasp of Judai's voice as he mumbled to himself, and _maybe_ Manjoume wanted to taunt him again, test that concentration in some stupid, childish way. Without those thin cards, Judai would have looked at him in a moment like this, and he wanted that. He wanted to take everything Judai would give him. Selfish. Greedy.

Honest

“Just pass your turn. I can end this quickly.”

At the first word, Judai glanced up, and Manjoume's fingers curled in. “Patience is a virtue,” Judai said, and his voice did not match his eyes – piercing, enough to make Manjoume shudder. “With the right motivation, I could turn this around. Probably be my greatest comeback yet, if you're interested in seeing that.”

“Please, Judai. Don't try to bluff.” Judai watched as he leaned back, his arrogance an act. He continued. “But watching you struggle _is_ somewhat entertaining, so give me your terms. Maybe I'll consider agreeing to them.”

Marked with a stylized Kaiba Corp logo, two Blue-Eyes White Dragons curled around the letters, Judai's baggy t-shirt was clearly some impulsive purchase at a gift shop, and the collar dipped past his collarbone when he tilted his head down, the bronze chain of that pendant against tanned skin. It pitched forward, and shadows were etched in the lines of Judai's neck, his chest.

“Let's do another bet,” he said. “If I win, then I get to kiss you. I mean, if you want to, of course.”

Immediately, Manjoume forced himself to be very interested in the stack of flowers, one hand over his face as if it could contain the red that _had_ to be there. The heat pushed up. He kept his voice even, almost disinterested, but it was a weak act, paper-thin.

“I...assume you've thought this through. When I win, what are you prepared to give me?”

“Well, if that's the case, you can kiss me instead.” Judai had to be watching him still, and he straightened slowly, carefully. A bold move from his opponent.

Their eyes locked.

“Then you should prepare to lose, Judai.”

And, like that, he felt a smirk cross his face, and Judai's eyes stayed on him.

Only him.

\---

 


	16. Another, Again

\---

But it was strange how easily he lost the field advantage, his own fusion monster taken down by an eerily specific spell card, typical for his opponent. Yubel hit the table next, their spirit clouding the portrait of the card.

“Zero-attack monsters are my signature. That's impolite,” Manjoume stated as he reviewed the contents of Judai's graveyard, almost as high as his own. Fodder to keep Yubel on the field had to be running thin. The move was a risk.

He could punish his opponent for it, the person who tried to hold back his laughter as he suddenly declared, “Yubel's just a soldier on this battlefield of love.”

“Did...you just transform into Tenjouin-san?”

“Maybe a little bit… Did I get the voice right?”

Manjoume scoffed. “Focus on the duel, idiot.”

“Hey, I'm trying to. That's worth some praise from you, isn't it?” Judai asked, taunting, and he ended his turn with thin defenses, his hand two cards. Neos Wiseman still lurked in that deck, as did Yubel's other forms.

A decision had to be made.

Compared to Judai, he had the hand advantage, and even if there were no Ojamas on the field, summoning a neat row of them would take little effort at all. Ojama Delta Hurricane would clear Judai's back row, the three facedown cards an important variable, but Yubel was the deciding one, the value that would determine the outcome. He had a copy of Ojama Blue, an obvious choice for his normal summon, and the little spirit cowered as it glanced over at Yubel, a dark energy gathering, curling in.

Maybe it really was just a bluff. Yubel could be consumed by its own effect with the next turn.

“It's...pretty distracting when you do that. I'm starting to think it's part of your strategy.”

“Do _what_?” he snapped, and he picked Ojama Blue, the next move still undetermined.

“You bite your lip when your thinking hard about something.”

“I don't.”

Judai laughed, a bright sound. “Ah, Manjoume… It's a compliment, actually. It means I'm getting to you with this duel.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Just admit it,” Judai said, taunting. His white teeth flashed, and Manjoume watched him, aware that he still needed his next move.

No, he needed more than that.

He needed to end the duel there, and he chained together effect after effect. He amassed the monsters that he needed to take the last of Judai's life points. The first counters were obvious ones, Judai flipping his trap cards with the same serrated grin, that of Yubel.

Victory closed in, and then it moved away – Judai activating Solemn Judgement, cutting himself down to 50 life points. The turn passed, and Neos Wiseman ended the duel.

They were alone in the hotel room, and Manjoume knew that his heart was racing, even faster when Judai stood up, the pendant swinging.

Without words, Judai was at his side, standing, and a careful hand ran along his jawline before directing his head back, the calloused fingers familiar, the touch light, hesitant.

He had to look away as he said it, aware that he sounded different, almost quiet.

“Judai, I'm not telling you to stop.”

“You sure?”

Thin bangs brushed his forehead, and Judai was close, leaning over him with one hand on his jawline, curled against it with that same hesitant touch. A brittle moment.

It could shatter.

“You...shouldn't make me wait,” Manjoume muttered, and then Judai kissed him, gentle enough that he gasped against Judai’s parted lips.

And, like that, Judai moved back, his smile wide. “Just so we're clear, dueling over _every_ kiss is going to take a long time.”

Typical Judai, but this time Manjoume had an answer. He gave in, and Judai's eyes widened as he tangled one hand in the front of that ridiculous shirt and pulled Judai back down, and he led the next kiss, the pressure stronger, the contact lasting longer than before. The hand against his skin moved into his hair. Judai's next breath rasped across his open lips, and the next kiss was different, even stronger, Judai's mouth taking his.

The contact was pure heat.

When they broke apart, he was breathing hard, and Judai was still over him, even closer than before. The pendant was on his chest, dragging and shifting down with every hurried, shallow breath. The heat had surged.

He cursed himself for it, but he had to push Judai away, standing up and raking a hand through his coarse hair, fixing his bangs with a practiced motion. His phone could go off any second. The van would be ready for the next gauntlet of cameras and microphones.

“I'll be back late,” he began, and, unthinking, he touched his bottom lip. Judai watched him.

Of course he did.

“After midnight, maybe one. Not my decision,” he said, and he breathed in slowly, aware of what he wanted, of how far he could take this. “I'll text you when I'm back. After that, knock on my door.”

“Understood,” was Judai quick reply, and he straightened to his full height. The smile did not match his dark eyes.

\---

Tradition scaffolded the interior structure of the Pro League, always there to mask the parts of it that were inefficient, contradictory, or just plain stupid, those usually a result of nepotism by established officials or investors. For televised or high-stakes duels, low-ranked members of the Pro League were susceptible to petty shows of power, like producers forcing them to waste hours in needless rehearsals, the criticisms fast and frequent. Each was part of an extended power trip, each disguised as a hazing ritual. The same people who had spat insults at him when he ranked in the hundreds now groveled at the very mention of his name.

For Duel Network, any prime-time exclusive duel was preceded by a night out with the producers, senior staff and investors, invited guests from the industry, and the involved duelists and their teams, and, from experience, he knew an event like that _could_ extend far into the morning. He had a place of honour, at the front of the massive dining room and to the left of Duel Network's president. Edo had the right.

The network had rented out the high-end restaurant on the twentieth floor of the Senrigan Group's iconic tower, rising from the central district of Domino City and dominating those lesser towers that encircled it. Through one window, spanning the far wall, the Manjoume Group's own tower stood, his family name reflected back at him.

Something about it was still unsettling, like a hangnail that could catch and rip down when he least expected it.

That fact that Sho was wearing a patterned powder-blue cravat with a purple dress shirt was almost as unsettling, and he hung behind Manjoume's elbow as he made his rounds.

“The least you can do is hold my coat,” Manjoume muttered as they walked away from another group, his hands shoved in his suit pockets. He had changed earlier, an all-black three-piece suit with a white shirt and another frayed overcoat, draped over his shoulders.

“Why are you even wearing that inside?”

“It's called 'branding’. Maybe you've heard of the concept.”

“So, your brand is...slightly chilly?”

Not for the first time, Manjoume questioned his choice in friends. On the opposite side of the room, Edo did the same routine as him, easy to track in the bright red, like a harsh line of colour in the corner of his vision, always shifting, moving.

Unlike Sho, he made a point of clicking his glass of champagne more than he drank from it. He couldn’t check his phone until the room thinned out.

He wanted to.

The reception area held an authentic Van Gogh, _Irises_ , behind a thick layer of glass, and the muted greens and blues surged through the remainder of the restaurant, a sprawling wave of purple-blue across the ceiling and culminating in a delicate glass chandelier, the petals refracting the flickering lights from the candles they contained. Some famous architect had been tasked with the renovation, one whose name he had heard at least five times that evening, and every piece of furniture was, apparently, custom, one-of-a-kind – all curved structures of dark wood, polished until they shone.

As if those things could impress him now, one of the two who had caught the attention of the world and held it in place. The hours were closing in, and he could almost feel its pressure, throbbing like a pulse that quickened, faster and faster. The buzz of overlapping conversations could condense even more than this, at its strongest in a stadium for tens of thousands, himself at the very center.

When he found Misako again, the glass he held was empty, and he put it down on the nearest table, stopping there. Sho, never one to waste anything labeled ‘free’ or ‘complimentary’, took the opposite approach, and Manjoume wrinkled his nose at the shorter duelist now hanging off his arm like an oversized and very clingy grocery bag.

“See, told you,” Sho began, jabbing him in the side. “Polished shoes just don’t fit you at all. Look! They’re all scuffed up!”

“Misako, how badly would my career be affected if I murdered Marufuji Sho?”

“Depends on the method,” she replied coldly, fixated on yet-another text message. Mirroring his colours, her beaded evening gown had a white focal panel against solid black, her silver rings an exception to the theme. “At the very least, please wait until next week. Your schedule is full enough as is.”

“Damn it,” he grumbled, and he tried again to shake Sho off, his insults ineffective and bouncing off like rubber bands. Perhaps out of morbid curiosity, the head of his management agency even gave up his seat, leaving Manjoume with that parasitic, attention-starved idiot chatting away at his side through all of the five courses, Edo’s blue eyes comically wide as Sho relayed the results of Ryo’s first driving test, some embellishments added.

There was no fucking way the _Kaiser_ would hit a shopping cart.

Ever.

“I see that your brother leaves…certain details out of our conversations,” Edo commented, and he coughed to cover up a chuckle, image-conscious even as their host, the honoured network president, downed half a bottle of wine and sawed at a poached pear with the wrong side of a dessert knife. “I am looking for a new driver, but perhaps it would be wise to leave Ryo out of the competition.”

“I’m sure he’ll be heartbroken,” Manjoume said, drumming his fingers on the table. Not even 9:00 p.m.

Sho had invaded his personal space, far too much fluffy light-blue hair everywhere. The proximity only highlighted how miserable Sho’s sense of style was, especially compared to Edo, who probably had at least three tailors in his personal entourage and every trending designer on his payroll.

At some point, Sho had lost whatever filter he possessed, and Manjoume almost knocked over a bottle of imported wine off the table when Sho yawned, flopped against his arm, and asked, “Like, speaking of hearts, what’s the deal with you and Ju-?”

“D-D-Do you _mind_?” Manjoume spat out, and Sho had the audacity to pout as Manjoume, finally, yanked his arm away. Freedom.

But Edo Phoenix happened to be at the table, and of all the insults he would willingly throw in that direction, ‘stupid’ would have been entirely incorrect.

“Ah, so that’s why you turned down a spot on Love Duel Island. I knew the likelihood of public humiliation wouldn’t have kept you away from a program like that, but this makes sense to me,” Edo drawled, and he had an infuriating affinity for saying _everything_ like it could be a compliment, his expression amused enough that Manjoume entertained the thought of challenging him to a duel right there, contracts be damned. This was the last course. The plates would be cleared away soon.

But something sharp still turned in his stomach at the thought of that first turn.

Sho, his already-dismissal attention span lowered to that of a hyperactive golden retriever, immediately changed the subject to Johan Andersen and his, quote, “totally unfair” deck. Apparently, their duel at the airport had been cut short by Sho’s manager, who had taken one look at the cards on the table and then shoved Sho across the terminal, ignoring his protests that he “had it under control”. Or something. Sho’s stories were always hard to follow.

“Johan keeps ignoring me when I bring it up,” Sho said, flopped on the table and frowning, puffing his cheeks out like someone half his age. Or maybe a quarter. “Like, there’s no _way_ he had that duel! I had the field advantage, the hand advantage, the…” Sho trailed off, his count on his fingers.

“Perhaps, but Johan is one of the generation’s most talented duelists,” Edo began, a knowing glint in his eyes as he glanced across the table to Manjoume.

The subject changed.

“Would you join me for a word in the other room?” Edo asked him, the courtesy a thin veneer.

When Edo led him from the table, across the reception area, and to a small, empty lounge, the cityscape below a constellation of artificial lights, they were followed by many sets of eyes.

They couldn’t duel, held back by the obligations that bound them both, but Edo still unclasped his deck from its holster and flipped the first five cards, that strange habit of his as the world’s first. Taking the green armchair by the wall-spanning window, Edo leaned forward and placed them in a cross on the nearest table, the portraits stark against the dark wood.

“An Arcana Force deck might suit you better,” Manjoume said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

Slowly, Edo smiled, and he folded the five cards back with the others. “Perhaps, but I have a friend who might not like that. Some archetype-specialists get a little jealous.”

“Popularity leads to archetype support, so that’s a stupid reaction. Your friend might want to do something more productive than complain.”

Edo laughed. “Ah, I’ll have to tell him you said that.”

The clicking of glasses from the other room reached them, as did the sounds of overlapping conversations. Waiters passed with raised trays, empty glasses and expensive bottles. The city below pulsed with light, the streets like rivers of white on red. It was still before 9:00 p.m., and some things had to be endured. Manjoume understood that.

While he had been prepared for Edo to insult him, the first one hit harder than expected.

“Maybe all of this was a mistake,” Edo began with a sigh, and Manjoume did not meet his eyes. Maybe anger would make the time pass faster. Maybe he could storm out of the restaurant, Edo’s arrogance like an convenient excuse.

“What’s this? The world’s first is consumed by regret?” He snorted, but the dull edges of his persona were all wrong, his voice not taunting enough. “Perhaps now you understand that you’ve underestimated your chosen opponent.”

“Believe me, it’s not that,” Edo countered, and then he sighed again. “I’m sure you remember this, but I did swear to avenge my earlier loss when we were both in the Pro League. Of course, even if it ended up taking longer than expected, I do make a point of keeping my promises.”

“How honourable of you.”

“But your expressions aren’t as closed-off as you think they are, Manjoume. You should’ve turned my challenge down if it was too much for you.”

“It’s not,” he said. He grit his teeth, and laughter sounded in the other room, almost mocking.

“You’re making this conversation more difficult than it needs to be,” Edo stated, and Manjoume pushed off the wall, the shifting grid of the city below him.

The stadium lay in the middle of it all.

“Stop acting like you’re older than me. I don’t need that treatment from you.”

“True, but I have been doing this a lot longer than you. I know what a burnout looks like.”

Maybe it had been a risk before, the sensation leaving his body as the long days dragged on and on, bleeding into one another. Maybe there were jagged gaps in his memory, bracketed by those calls he had made to Judai. Sometimes he had been the one who fell asleep first.

“Edo, I’m going to be there tomorrow. After that, you’re still going to have to deal with me in the Pro League. That difference between our ranks is going to be reversed.”

“Is that a promise?” Edo teased, and after he stood up, he took a place next to Manjoume at the window. “You know, your ugly stitches left an even uglier scar on my stomach. My manager has to get it edited out after some of my photoshoots.”

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Manjoume retorted. “Next time, I’ll just let you bleed out instead.”

“Of course, you take it to the extreme…”

But the evening passed easier after that, Misako giving him a surprised look when he re-entered the room alongside Edo, shaking his head at one of those off-hand remarks, the kind that were a bit _too_ honest for the cameras. Even though Edo could give a well-practiced smile to pretty much anything, he had his limits, and it turned out that their ‘dislike’ lists were eerily similar. Chips of that princely veneer fell off as Edo ranted about a mutual villain they shared, an over-excitable producer who always moved his events at the last minute and created numerous scheduling conflicts, the kind that, on one memorable occasion, had left both of them on the wrong continent for their later appointments.

“At the mention of his title, Emeralda starts to grind her teeth,” Edo said, adjusting his glass. Carbonated water. “You can hear it from at least three meters away, sometimes four.”

“That’s…oddly specific,” Manjoume stated, and Sho was snoring at the far end of the table, its other occupants scattered around the dining room. At some point, he would tell Sho the truth about him and Judai, another item on his post-Phoenix list.

For now, letting Sho sleep was much, _much_ easier than dealing with his endless babbling.

“Oh, and congratulations, by the way.”

“Why does that sound so insincere coming from you?”

Edo laughed, drawing a few stares.

In the arena tomorrow, Edo would shine, that magnetism drawing the crowd towards him, keeping them there as he let the tension spiral out of control, delaying his moves purposefully, knowingly. He would strike with the confidence of a victor, someone _used_ to declaring when the end would be. The crowd would fall silent when he commanded them to. They would cheer his title at the careless flick of a hand.

“You want the truth?”

Manjoume drummed his fingers on the table. “Depends on what it is.”

“There are much better things I could with my time than sit here all night. I’m in a good position to leave early, since I outrank everyone else here and seniority isn’t much of an issue anymore,” Edo said, leaning back in his chair. Manjoume, out of habit, leveled a glare at him. “The problem is,” he added, “that I can’t think of the best way to do it. Should I pretend to storm out? Should I mysteriously vanish?”

“You know that some people have _actual_ problems, right?”

The next time Edo laughed, even more stares were directed at him. The sound had been louder, almost boyish.

“Well, I don’t want to give the impression that I’m putting in some late-night training for _your_ sake.”

But there was an opportunity there, the clock barely reaching after 9:30 p.m. The numbers seemed stuck.

“I have an idea, if you can follow my lead without complaining too much.”

“You’re asking for a lot from me,” was Edo’s immediate reply, but he did wait after it, something playful crossing his handsome face.

After he told Edo about it, the sudden bark of laughter from the world’s first was enough to silence the room, and Manjoume felt his smirk turn.

\---

“You're both leaving early?”

“The network president has already passed out, so I don't think he'll miss us,” Manjoume observed, and the rest of the room was rapidly approaching a similar state, expensive drinks spilled on equally expensive ties. Puffy red faces. Jokes that were too acidic for his taste.

“It's quite simple,” Edo said, shrugging, and for someone who had a shocking number of Edo Phoenix photos on her personal phone, Misako looked extremely annoyed with the genuine article, the pinched lines between her eyebrows normally reversed for pushy paparazzi or interviewers who insisted on rescheduling. “Plus, Thunder here gets to yell at me in public. Might be entertaining for everyone involved.”

Like his own manager, Emeralda was skeptical. “Typically, guests at such an event leave after the president does, but given the...circumstances,” she said, which was a very indirect way of referencing the man face-down on a table, the snores loud, “it does seem like a reasonable decision.”

“I can't give my best to my fans tomorrow if I'm stuck in this place all night.” Edo's words were reasonable, measured. The still-healing tears on his right hand were probably from some street fight, maybe another vigilante game.

Even after all of this time, Edo was still a confusing person, the contrasts in him strange, fused together like welded metal.

“I'll talk to our upper management,” Misako said, and Emeralda gave her a curt nod before taking off for the opposite side of the room, Edo's team gathered around the two tables there. Like those guests in the far corners of the room, they looked bored.

“I like this new tradition,” Edo declared, pivoting to face him. “Leaving before the treasurer has to get his stomach pumped. What a novel concept!”

“Why did you just put that image in my head?” Manjoume mumbled, bashing his forehead as if that could dislodge it. Something even worse than the almost-naked Ojamas and their puckered faces was morbidly impressive, but he also wasn't in the fucking mood for it.

Barely after 9:40, edging towards 10.

Predictably, Edo got his way, and he seemed to get the credit even though Manjoume was the actual strategist, the lines of dialogue all his. He only complained about it for the first ten floors of the elevator ride down, Sho the dead weight hanging off his arm.

When they hit the lobby, he let Edo and Emeralda go ahead, and the count was short, just ten seconds to make it seem more natural. Then, he started after Edo, Sho and Misako following him.

“So…. What's my line?”

“Just stand there and try not to fall on your face,” Manjoume said, and Sho had to jog to match his longer strides, wobbling when they took a corner.

“Like, they were just starting with the free, uh, seafood thingies. Are you a lightweight or something? Why are we-”

“Because someone outside will take a video, maybe some high-resolution photos, and a certain other someone,” he stated, Sho blinking up at him, “would appreciate the push on social media, wouldn't he?”

“W-Wait… Who are we talking about again?”

Manjoume sighed and walked faster, trusting that Misako would ensure the other duelist didn't run into the glass door or, the more likely option, blurt out something more stupid than usual.

Even though the dinner had been set to go late into the night, even into the morning for certain guests, some eager fans and camera-wielding paparazzi were already on the other side of the street, the tower's lobby spilling into the sidewalk and bracketed by stern security guards. Edo Phoenix leaving at this time, breaking the tradition, would alone be enough to grab a few headlines and draw some pointed criticism from the old guard. That he was followed out the door by Manjoume Thunder, his expression set in a practiced scowl, was something else, the kind of drama that the public craved – as if the duel tomorrow wouldn't have already broken viewership records.

“Oh, is the great Phoenix running away?” he drawled, the mocking delivery perfect, and Edo stopped.

“Believe it or not, not everything I do involves you,” Edo said, his hands in his pockets.

It was simple from there – a few barbed remarks, some declarations of intent. The obvious highlight was Edo dramatically turning to face a wall, a bad attempt at covering his sudden laughter. More than that, it was far, _far_ better than listening to same tired stories all night, every repeated syllable like a piece of gravel hurled at his head, tolerable but annoying, grating.

Watching Edo Phoenix struggle to maintain that ‘arrogant, bordering on irritated’ expression was another highlight, and Manjoume ended the conversation by storming away, just as they had agreed. The reference to a previous fictional argument hung in the air, sure to cause speculation on social media and stoke the fires even more. After dropping Sho off with his own manager, the older man heaving a massive sigh, Manjoume sprawled across the backseats of an ordered car and let Misako drive, and there was nothing surprising about the message waiting for him.

 

**PHOENIX [22:08]: remind me to never let you write the dialogue again**

 

“‘Thank you’ would have sufficed,” Manjoume muttered to himself, and he clicked the screen off, the city lights streaking past. His own face scowled at him one-hundred-fold from a grid of ripped posters, warped by the persistent rain, and Edo’s hadn’t fared much better, those posters spanning the next city block, some torn loose and rolling with the low wind. Neon blue, the stadium rose ahead, a video looping of their career highlights, his ending with that victory over Sho, with his own steel-grey eyes locked on the camera, narrowed to slits.

‘PHOENIX V. THUNDER, LIVE’ shot across the screens next, curls of fire and branches of lighting clashing behind the massive characters as they rotated around the stadium’s exterior. Outside, three news vans had parked, all crooked, and the reporters could only be giving one story. The Ojamas had insisted on getting their beauty sleep, and, in the absence of their constant chatter, the silence worked out the lingering tension in his neck.

Tomorrow he could become someone else, and that was a terrifying, sudden thought.

He sent a short message.

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [22:10]: eta 15 mins**

 

The response came seconds later.

 

**Yuki Judai [22:10]: im hurrying back**

Then Judai sent him a photo, predictably lop-sided and out of focus, and Manjoume was officially buying him a new phone the next time they were out together, that ancient one with the cracked red case at least four generations old, the screen pebbled with indents. A better camera would be his priority, and, as the car jerked around a corner, he found himself looking at an underground station, the name of the line blurred. Judai was standing in front of an all-night shop for electronics adjacent to the track, and two life-sized cardboard cut-outs of Manjoume Thunder in full dueling regalia, his custom duel disk extended, were behind him, next to the racks of cheap snacks, phone chargers, and batteries.

 

**Yuki Judai [22:10]: how fast do u think security would get here if i took one?**

Manjoume snorted, and he typed a hurried response.

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [22:10]: youre talking to the genuine article. i dont know why youd need a poor imitation.**

**Yuki Judai [22:11]: hmmmmm but**

**Yuki Judai [22:11]: that way id have two manjoume thunders~**

“What a moron,” he muttered to himself, and he recognized the next street, the hotel tower just after the intersection. When he stepped out of the car, the staff by the entrance bowed in greeting, and he nodded back as he clicked the screen off. His last message had been simple, straightforward. 

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [22:11]: if you hurry up and get here, ill show you why you only need one.**

\---

The flowers were still on the table, and some petals had fallen off and scattered across it, empty except for the blue flowers and the clear plastic around them. He threw his overcoat somewhere, and he started to take off his cufflinks, but then he stopped.

There was the knock.

After he opened the door, he turned away and crossed the room again, adjusting the shirt cuffs that he’d just creased. “I almost expected for you to have one of those ridiculous cut-outs,” Manjoume said, his voice even, and he dared a second glance over his shoulder. Just Judai, still wearing that baggy t-shirt. Another stamp marked the back of his right hand, a ticket and a receipt sticking out of the front pocket of his worn jacket. Even though something powerful still moved through it, his deck was contained by its holster, the spirits staying in their cards.

“Well, I got something better than that,” Judai said, his smile turning.

Somehow he missed what Judai was holding behind his back, and when the red-yellow flowers were held out to him, he stared at them. The accents were white. The wrapping was patterned with starburst-shapes in a pale green.

He took them carefully, the plastic crinkling together, and his heart hammered in his chest, hammered fast and loud because Yuki Judai had just brought him fucking _flowers_ in some stupid, simple gesture that cut right through him, that hit his weakest part and shattered it. He breathed in, and the plastic kept making that noise, his grip tight.

“That’s…a thoughtful message,” he said, and at Judai’s confused expression, he flipped the attached card open. Empty.

“Ah, I forgot about that…” Judai admitted with a bright laugh. They had started to wilt already, the petals delicate enough to tear – as if that mattered at all, as if that could mean _anything_. In the spirit world, he had watched as Judai had knelt down to embrace Bell for the first time, shaking more than she had, her shell crossed with innumerable cuts, bordered by many scars. Before that, he had walked up and down the coastline of a distant island, his head lowered against the biting wind, until he had found the person hunched by the water, close enough that the push and pull of the tide seemed like it would take him next, like the curls of broken shells, like the grains of wet sand. Back then, he had never said anything.

He had been a coward.

“Although, I'm lucky your fans aren't buying you anything more expensive than flowers. Otherwise I'd be out of the competition pretty quickly.”

“Like there's even a competition,” Manjoume muttered, and then he trailed off. He put the flowers on the table behind him, in front of the others. “I...suppose I should thank you for these.”

“If you want to,” Judai said, and Manjoume crossed the distance first, his mouth on Judai's. And, as Judai's lips parted for him, he pulled Judai even closer by the front of that stupid, hideous shirt. His limiter was off. Any doubts he had were gone, ground down into nothing, and Judai's hands were warm as they rolled his suit jacket off his shoulders and let it fall. He gasped against Judai's open mouth, and the angle changed.

He braced himself with one hand, his fingers digging into the table, and their hips slid together, the pressure not enough. Judai kissed him harder, surging forward, and _then_ their hips connected, breaths hitching. When Judai mouth left his, he panted, his eyes unseeing, and their hips rolled together again. Judai’s grinded down.

Fuck.

“You wear too many layers,” Judai mumbled against his neck, above the rigid line of his collar.

“A-At least I’m not…” He broke off, and Judai just kept increasing the pace, driving into him. Every pass of Judai’s hips made the pressure stronger. “Y-You can’t criticize me when you’re wearing _that_ shirt, Judai.”

A taunting smirk.

“Well, I can fix that,” Judai said, and then he leaned back, reached down, and lifted the shirt over his head, that pendant falling against his bare chest. Shadows were etched into the hard muscles of his arms, and bronze swung across the sharp indent of his collarbone, his broad chest leading down to narrow hips, thighs spread because they bracketed his own and kept him against the table.

That smirk only narrowed, and the tension in his chest was like a taut string, trembling as it was pulled even tighter. Judai’s lips brushed his, gentle enough that he could have imagined it, like how he _had_ imagined it before. Hot water. The lights off.

“It’s your turn,” Judai whispered.

There was only one answer.

He started with the waist coat, and it dropped to the floor in seconds, his fingers already yanking at his tie. He did it with one hand, the other behind him, steadying him. Narrowed as they were, Judai’s eyes were dark, piercing, and they were on him, the focus on no one else, _nothing_ else.

Maybe he let it drag out, his practiced fingers slowing down, the fabric slipping between them.

Maybe he already knew what Judai liked, and he was never one to waste an advantage, snapping his wrist to the side as the knot came loose, watching every slight twist of Judai’s expression, those eyes carving into him. The collar was next, and he opened it with the same shaking hand.

In the near dark, they were alone, and Judai’s mouth found his again, searing. Judai pushed him onto the table, and his legs spread, Judai’s hips on his own. Crushed petals passed under his palm, and he raised it to Judai’s bare chest and then slid it down the hard angles of his back. Even in this situation, Judai was an unfair opponent, a fucking _bastard_ , and he could only make stupid, broken sounds as Judai ground into him, calloused fingers finishing the last buttons and then directing the open shirt over his shoulders, the fabric catching on his arms, holding them still for a second that had Judai kissing him even deeper, deep enough that his eyes snapped open.

He shoved Judai off.

“Get in the bedroom.”

“That’s direct,” was what Judai said, but he took a step back.

“Do you have another preference?” Manjoume asked, and Judai’s eyebrows shot up when he started on his belt, yanking the strap loose.

The adjacent room was one corner of the tower, the bed positioned to face the two massive, wall-spanning windows, and Manjoume could have cursed himself for forgetting about _that_. Throwing the belt behind him, something rattling from the impact, he lowered the blinds. Blue-coloured light spilled in from the other room, some streaks of yellow-orange from the lamp he’d left on.

Close enough.

Judai was behind him, and those familiar hands were suddenly on his chest, warm breath passing over the back of his neck. “So, I take it that my flowers worked. Good to know.”

“It’s almost impressive how stupid you are,” Manjoume mumbled, and before Judai could answer, he turned around and took control again, his next order simple. “Get on the bed.”

“One second.”

Judai’s belt hit the floor next, and Manjoume was _definitely_ staring as Judai pulled his jeans down, the lines of his thighs stark, strong even in the thin light. Black boxer shorts were left on, the sharp ‘v’ of his hipbones cut off, and Manjoume was more than fucking curious, his hands aching, reaching forward, but Judai stopped him with a soft kiss, bangs parting on his forehead.

“Let’s try to keep this even,” Judai whispered next, and the meaning was clear. When Manjoume yanked his custom-ordered, all-black suit pants down, he almost ripped the zipper off, and then his hands were back in Judai’s hair, his mouth forcing Judai’s open. His knees hit the bed.

Judai was over him, and the bronze pendant connected with his chest, cold. Close like this, the healed-over scars that crossed Judai’s body were clear, their ridges passing under his palms. They rose up from tanned skin, warm, and every deep breath that Judai took could be felt, every hurried gasp made like the start of his name.

He inhaled through clenched teeth when Judai started down his chest, those spread fingers stopping at his waistband.

“Hey, can I…?”

He nodded, and the eyes on his own were going through him, pupils pushing into the flecks of gold. They had to catch the way he shuddered when Judai rolled them off, and they went wider when Judai leaned back, the stare raking down his body, his chest rising and falling fast. He was hard.

So was Judai, his cock tight against the side of Manjoume’s hip.

 _Fuck_ , and Manjoume breathed in again, looking away. “K-Keep it even. That’s _your_ rule, i-isn’t it?” he said, and his voice had lost its edge, ground down into nothing. The pendant moved up when Judai placed a soft kiss on his face, just above his mouth, and his heart hammered faster when he felt the shift, the slight way Judai changed his balance. Bare thighs bracketed his raised hips, and _then_ Judai tested him, one hand on the tip of his cock and then working down the shaft, the touch too light, not even _close_.

 _“Judai, don’t make me insult you,”_ is what he had wanted to say, but then Judai’s hand was around him, solid and warm, and he bucked into the contact, aware that Judai inhaled as a sharp, desperate hiss. It started like that, each pass of Judai’s hand slow enough that he had to roll his hips up, aware that Judai saw _everything_ , that Judai could go faster than this without a second thought. It got to him, those broken, cut-off sounds from his open mouth, rising with the even strokes, and the precum on his thigh was from the sudden press of Judai’s cock. Ragged breaths. His knuckles dragging over taut sheets.

Judai dragging even more sounds out of him.

And then he shoved Judai off and pushed him down against the bed, making Judai tilt his head back as the kiss turned hot, as he grabbed Judai’s bare cock and pressed hard against it with his palm. He wanted every ragged breath, every shiver that passed up the body under his own, and he worked fast, every stroke starting at the base, his palm tight on the underside of the shaft. He let the kiss end there, and he took in the sudden moan that Judai made and then tried to make it happen again.

It happened, and he was fucking lost.

“Manjoume, you’re-”

“Just keep saying my name,” he said, _ordered_ as some emotion rushed through him, strong even though he was shaking more than Judai, even though a single twist of that hand would’ve made him break. But Judai let him take this, _have_ this.

The image of Judai under him was seared into his head, his pale fingers wrapped around a slick, red cock, pumping it up and down. Judai’s profile was stark against the dark sheets, his eyes narrowed, his lips parted as he took unsteady breaths, his hips rising as Manjoume took the pace even faster than that. He worked out another moan, and he was greedy, tied to this moment. He tried to work out another, and then Judai’s hips jerked down, his chest fell.

“Manjoume,” Judai whispered, and his eyes were ringed with gold, pupils blown.

“Come on. S-Show me,” Manjoume said before he tightened his grip, Judai’s groan enough to make him shudder, close to falling apart, to falling even deeper than this. And then Judai was grabbing at his arm, forcing it still as hot cum spilled through his fingers, and Judai’s expression was open, something he could only stare and _stare_ at while their bodies shook, every surge of Judai’s against his own. He kissed Judai’s neck, a wet sound. He wrapped that same hand around his own cock, and he gasped and gasped, ready for it.

He came with his forehead on Judai’s chest and Judai’s voice in his ear, a low drawl of his first name. He watched as it dripped over Judai’s bare thighs, and Judai’s spent cock was even slicker than that.

When he closed his eyes, Judai pulled him into another kiss.

\---

Gentle fingers were in his hair, parting the thick strands and moving in circles. Another hand was on his back, steadying him. At some point, he rolled onto his back, and there was the muddled sound of Judai moving around the room, the sink turning on and off. When Judai poked his side, he raised an arm and swatted at him, a total miss.

Whatever.

“It’s shower time,” Judai said, and Manjoume made a second attempt, with the same result. How annoying.

“Not happening.”

“You’re going to regret it you don’t.”

“Like I even care.”

“Manjoume…”

“Make me.”

Judai let out a heavy sigh, and that was all the warning Manjoume had before he was lifted off the bed, one arm under his legs and another behind his shoulders, and his first kick almost took out one of the poor-taste sculptures littering the room. The second made Judai laugh, which stalled his brain, and his ankle knocked against the door frame as, bridal style, Judai carried him across the tiled room and into the shower.

Judai had left the lights off, and the water was already running, warm as it beaded on his skin, but he knew what it would’ve looked like – the mirrors over the sink catching the shock that went across his face and _probably_ catching the lines of Judai’s bare shoulders, the maze of his back. Standing, he leaned back against the tile, breathing hard, and Yuki Judai was less than a meter away, opening the complimentary shampoo bottle with some difficulty, by the sound of it. Dried cum was on his wrist, across his palm.

“What the fuck just happened?”

“Is…that a trick question?” Judai asked, and Manjoume, startled, almost flinched when Judai’s hands went back into his hair, this time dragging citrus-y suds with them. He should have complained more. He had already showered that morning.

“You’re…using too much,” was his response, given as he let his head fall against Judai’s shoulder. His eyes were shut, and he could have fallen asleep again, the steam on his warm skin, Judai’s even warmer than that. Judai’s hands crossed his own, working the liquid between his fingers, and, had he been fully awake, totally alert, and in his one-hundred-percent Manjoume Thunder mode, he would have exploded, probably.

The water pulsed against him, and he could feel it when Judai moved closer, ducking his head into the slight indent where his neck connected to his shoulder. The two parallel scars on Judai’s back could be felt even like this, even when he dragged his nails up lightly, and maybe he did fall asleep again, because the sudden press of Judai’s lips to his forehead was like a shock, his eyes suddenly open.

“So, are you sure you’re doing okay?”

“Are _you_?”

“Obviously,” Judai said, shrugging. “But you’re acting a little-”

“If you finish that question, Judai, then I’m going to throw you into the hallway. I might even take _your_ key card too, just to make a point.”

Judai laughed. “We both know you wouldn’t do that.”

“True, but I’d enjoy fantasizing about it.”

“That’s…not the kind of fantasy I’d want to hear about,” Judai admitted, and Manjoume snorted, the water drumming against his low shoulders, one of Judai’s arms around them.

The blinds in the bedroom were uneven, and he was too fucking lazy to figure out the automated panel for them, the sky outside still a smooth, seamless black. None of the three blankets piled on the bed were even remotely necessary, since apparently Judai could double as a space heater, and, somehow, he wasn’t knocked out the moment his head went horizontal, Judai behind him and already taking deep, even breaths. A slackened hand was on his hip, the nails short, blunt. It should have felt strange, like the edges of two jagged pieces lining up with one another, refusing to click together.

Instead, it was something else.

\---


	17. Seconds, Minutes

\---

He woke up to a banging on the door.

A series of realizations hit as he found his robe and tied it on, such as the very simple, straightforward fact that he’d had to lift the dead weight of Judai’s arms off to get up, which had taken a few tries and some pokes to Judai’s ribs, all cheap shots. Another was the strange, lingering warmth that stayed along his back.

His belt was hanging off the in-room telephone, knocked off its desk and in a pile on the floor, like evidence of his complete and utter lack of self-control when it came to the person snoring behind him, long limbs sticking out of the folded-back blankets. Either Judai had built-in earplugs or Yubel, entirely misguided, was messing with his senses, letting him sleep in.

And _that’s_ when the last realization hit, and Manjoume scrambled to his knees and yanked his cellphone out of his suit pocket – three missed calls and twenty unread messages from his manager.

“Fuck, I’m dead,” he said, and everything got _worse_ in the milliseconds it took for the Ojamas to appear, bursting out of mid-air with a rain of confetti and the start of some whining, repetitive chant that Manjoume walked away from, blinking fast, trying to jolt himself awake.  

When he threw the door open, he had an apology ready, but Misako was somehow faster, shoving a garment bag at him. There was a necessary delay on his part, the task of picking her voice out from the constant babble of the Ojamas unusually difficult, like trying to order pieces on a game board that someone kept knocking over, forcing a restart.

“-although, in my opinion, a meteor could be heading straight for the planet and people would still find a way to talk about the duel instead. The public’s opinion is that high,” she said, pausing to flick back her neat ponytail, her silver rings flashing. “Of course, the added drama from the dinner last night only intensified things, which is why no one will mind if we’re somewhat late for the press conference. …And I see that you’re awake now.”

“Forty-percent, maybe,” he admitted, and the look Misako gave him could only be described as long-suffering, the kind that would’ve been patronizing, maybe even insulting, on someone else. 

“Twelve minutes, and then we need to be downstairs. We’re starting with the double-breasted suit, the overcoat your choice. The stylists are completing the last touches on your stage outfit, and it will be ready for us at the stadium, two hours before the first turn.”

“Twelve minutes,” he repeated, drawing a hand through his hair, loose without the product to hold it. Ojama Green was climbing up his leg, the reason probably stupid.

“You want a coffee?”

“Extra sugar, and…thank you.”

“If you promise to be changed by the time I get back, I might even bring two,” she said before pivoting on her heel and taking off down the hallway, leaving Manjoume to blink like an idiot at her retreating back, wasting at least ten seconds.

Aside from the random articles of clothing everywhere, Judai’s Kaiba Corp shirt even uglier as a crumpled mess, the room was neatly ordered, and he could’ve changed with a blindfold on. Hell, he could’ve scraped and shoved his hair into its usual style like that, the tacky gel taking on the familiar shapes. The Ojamas complicated things – Ojama Red jumping on every piece of furniture, the running commentary a constant buzz.

Ojama Yellow took careful, measured steps across the counter as Manjoume jabbed an eyeliner pencil into his waterline, and apparently he had picked the wrong time to try that, Yellow’s question leading to an eyeball-meets-sharp-object incident. At least he was seventy-percent awake now, minimum.

“Uhh…. Boss? Why is Judai here?”

“You can’t be serious,” he muttered to himself, and he swatted Yellow off the counter next. “Try rubbing your two braincells together for once. Maybe you can figure it out yourself.”

“B-But… Boss? Boss!” Yellow whined, and Manjoume ignored it, going for his tie and then his cufflinks.

Because Ojamas came in packs, like a bunch of hideous and wobbly herd animals, it wasn’t long until the whole brigade was bouncing around his feet, even Ojama Blue joining in. Evidently, gossip was more pressing for him than stage fright.

Striding across the bedroom, he picked an overcoat next, the matte-black one with the electric blue lining catching his eye first, and as he threw it over his shoulders, he almost tripped over yet-another belt, this one Judai’s.

Judai had the foresight to place his deck holster on a side table, whereas Manjoume had found his own under the bed, which resulted in a series of Ojama-related complaints.

“I’m almost tempted to just trade decks with Judai. I mean, his has already beaten Edo’s, so it's an easy win for me,” he said, loud enough that the Ojamas heard him, gasped, and huddled together, Ojama Yellow already covered in snot and pushing back tears. “Plus, he can apparently sleep through the apocalypse. That airhead probably wouldn’t even notice.”

When Judai’s arm shot up, Ojama Yellow swooned and fell against Ojama Green, his beady eyes set in two X-shapes. At least it would be a little quieter, Yellow’s voice capable of hitting one of _those_ pitches that could be like a razor-sharp knife to his ears.

Bedhead and Yuki Judai went together like, well, bedhead and Yuki Judai. Enough said.

“If you try switching decks with me,” Judai began through a yawn, blinking rapidly, “then you might trip my ultra-special alarm system.”

“I think Yubel might resent being called that,” he replied, and dark laughter echoed in the room.

“You’d be surprised.” With another yawn, Judai started to crack his shoulders, alarmingly loud, and then he stopped. His smile was nervous at the edges, which did nothing to calm the Ojamas down, Ojama Blue waving a feathered fan at Ojama Yellow while the remaining Ojamas attempted to out-hysteric each other, Ojama Black really going for the tears. “So, uh… Should we have a little chat with these guys?”

“I’d rather stick my hand in a blender and hit ‘liquify,’” Manjoume said, which was almost true. “Also, I don’t have time for a ‘little chat.’”

“You…slept in?”

“Almost an hour.”

Judai’s smile went wide. “Congratulations.”

“That’s the wrong reaction,” he mumbled, checking his phone for the time. Three minutes. “But, whatever. I gotta go, and you should text me when-”

“Can I tag along?”

“Uh…”

“Is that a ‘no’?” Judai asked, almost teasing. He had sat up, and the blankets were off his chest, bare skin over shifting muscles. It was a massive improvement over that stupid Kaiba Corp shirt, which deserved to be incinerated.

His morning schedules usually had the same format – a lot of bowing to people who _thought_ they were important and some nodding in front of the cameras while trying to recall the stilted lines from some script. It could work, but he had one reservation, his eyes on Judai’s dimpled smile.

“You’d find it boring. _Really_ boring.”

“Maybe I’ll surprise you,” was Judai’s fast response, and that’s when Manjoume agreed to willingly unleash Yuki Judai, the reincarnation of some old-world tyrant with more magical powers than common sense, on the stiff-necked upper-echelons of the Pro League. Maybe it would be entertaining.

“You have two minutes to find some pants,” Manjoume said, and instantly Judai was throwing back the blankets and, stark naked, taking off across the room, the Ojamas providing a soundtrack of high-pitched squeals. There was a thud as they dropped Ojama Yellow.

Evidently, this was his reality now, and Manjoume wasted at least twenty seconds staring at the curve of Judai’s ass, unblinking and trying not to sweat through all four layers of his outfit. He wasted some more as Judai brought his distressed jeans over his boxer shorts and started on the belt, pulling it tight, and his bare back was a maze of raised muscles and old scars, a sharp indent between his shoulder blades, and-

Damn it.

“You can’t wear that,” Manjoume stated, clearing his throat loudly. “Neither one of the Kaiba brothers gives my agency money.”

Frowning, Judai lifted up the blue pile and shook it once. “Uhh… But it’s my shirt?”

“If you're going to be in my entourage, then you have to follow the rules, which means doing what I say without asking any stupid questions,” Manjoume explained, and Judai seemed stuck on the word 'entourage’, repeating it to himself a few times. Winged Kuriboh, twirling around his head as it popped out of the card, made a loud hoot, which meant something to Judai.

“Guess it's the black one instead,” he declared, and, after scooping up his crumpled jacket and throwing it over one shoulder, he ran out the door, and then Manjoume heard two voices in the hallway, Misako's slightly higher than normal.

He was ready with five seconds to spare, if the timer on his phone was correct, and Misako passed him a large take-away cup, the second in her other hand.

“I take it that your coach is coming with us,” she said, and Manjoume nodded once, the Ojamas hauling themselves over his feet, already exhausted by their own theatrics.

“He...normally wears more clothes than that,” Manjoume heard himself say, and then he slapped his forehead. Eighty-percent awake. The caffeine would hopefully do the rest, although the next loud chirp of Winged Kuriboh, making him flinch hard, was an effective substitute.

“We're definitely having a conversation later about 'discretion’.”

“That's...probably a good idea.”

“What's a good idea?” Judai asked, closing the door to his room. The faded black shirt had a deep collar, the chain around Judai's neck shifting link by link, and some barbs from Yubel showed through, translucent scales sliding down his knuckles.

“If you don't talk to any reporters without me,” Manjoume said, arching an eyebrow. He continued after a sip of his coffee, sweet enough that he cringed. Perfect. “Misako, give him the ban list.”

“Like...cards?”

“No, subjects,” she answered, and she reached the broad category of 'other professional duelists’ when they were in the van, Judai on his left while the stylist on his right jabbed at him with a makeup brush and some tweezers. Up until that point, Judai had been a quiet student, blinking widely as Misako continued from the front seat, and Manjoume suspected that Yubel was the one taking mental notes instead, their draconic talons shifting above his wrists. Predictably, Judai had ended up with his second coffee, and Manjoume almost resented him for it.

The sudden appearance of a lint roller was slightly more annoying, the next swing of the van sending it against his elbow with a hard crack.

“It’s important that anyone associated with a professional duelist does not go against the narrative they have constructed for themselves,” Misako explained, another rapid-fire text message underway. “Of course, it’s equally important that they help maintain the narratives of other professional duelists as well. For example, if Edo Phoenix were to attend a high-stakes tournament, the other duelists would naturally bring up his rank, dueling record, and his past rivalries in their own interviews. As a matter of courtesy, they would not mention things that do not fit the narrative of a successful public figure or that Edo’s management team has forbidden. The same rules would apply to managers, assistants, publicists….”

“Isn’t all of this…a little complicated?” Judai asked.

“Perhaps, but it’s what maintains the public image of a duelist,” Misako said, and when Manjoume frowned at that, Judai knocked their knees together. Probably intentional. “While some duelists rely on one more than the other, the simple truth is that success is impossible without a well-maintained image, especially with the number of newcomers entering the Pro League each year.”

“They keep expanding the ranks. It’s a feeding frenzy down in the hundreds,” Manjoume muttered, and he looked out the window, some groups on the sidewalk in his colour. Some were in Edo’s. “In that bracket, you have to use brute force to keep your rank up, which means dueling anything that moves. No one keeps a consistent win-rate like that, but it still needs to be high enough to keep your management team happy, otherwise they’ll just move on to someone else.” Judai’s leg was against his, definitely not an accident, and Winged Kuriboh let out a soft warble. “Image gets you of the pit.”

“Still, the whole thing seems…”

He rolled his eyes, ready for the declaration. “What? ‘Pointless’? It works, Judai. That’s the important part.”

“I was going to say it seems like a lot of work for something that’s not about the actual dueling,” Judai replied. He had to be grinning, all white teeth and bright eyes. “But, I mean, I get why someone like Edo wouldn’t want everyone in the Pro League to hear about how I-”

When he lunged at Judai, there was some chaos, but it was nothing compared to what waited for them outside, the Duel Network studios swarmed by cameras, a gauntlet of flashes going off, and Judai ended up somewhere behind him, Winged Kuriboh hooting in surprise as the mass of people surged alongside them. Posters in his colour were thrown up, glitter on the thunder bolts that pierced their characters, and just as many people lined the thin hallways inside the studio, all ready for their expected greetings. In the corner of his eye, there was Winged Kuriboh, pulled along like a balloon while Judai circled the spaces he passed through. Judai was the flash of red as he dragged up names from memory like old shirts from the bottom of a suitcase, ill-fitting and strange. Seconds drew it closer, dropping into minutes, then hours.

\---

Whenever Judai was more than a meter away – usually humming to himself, his hands in his pockets, as he trailed the group of assistants and handlers – Manjoume found that his phone served as a good distraction from whatever the fuck _that_ emotion was. His vision had tilted. Some faces stayed blurred.

Asuka had been the first to congratulate him, and her clubroom had been decked out with blue and yellow banners, a projector set up in front of a white board covered with his insignia. Her protegees were sprawled over two of the chairs, Reiji giving the camera a victory sign while Mariella scowled across from him, their decks on their knees.

 

**Tenjouin Asuka (DC/Fair Duel/M.Ed.) [10:12]: i managed to get some volunteers. recognize them?**

**Tenjouin Asuka (DC/Fair Duel/M.Ed.) [10:12]: all 53 members of our club will be cheering you on. don't forget about us, okay?**

 

Scrolling down from the picture and nodding absently to whatever Misako said next, he sent a quick reply. Laughter boomed from across the hallway.

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [10:15]: you picked the right person to cheer for. excellent taste.**

 

But Asuka's reply was even faster, his phone vibrating before he could put it down, another set of introductions lined up. Most of the work for a press conference surrounded the actual event, the stiff smiles patronizing.

 

**Tenjouin Asuka (DC/Fair Duel/M.Ed.) [10:15]: my brother wants you to unblock him btw**

 

“Oh shit,” he said, and _then_ he glanced up, the turned heads of the executives a lucky break, although Misako gave him a pointed look. Message received.

The endless torrent of baby photos from Fubuki had been too much, but the ban had been meant for only a few hours, not days.

Immediately after Manjoume swiped to Fubuki's profile and opened a new conversation window, the photos started up again, the first with Fubuki's face in a corner, behind a chubby arm and a motion-blurred rattle. Somehow, his former mentor having a months-old daughter was less of an adjustment than seeing him with a short beard, although there was probably _nothing_ that either Tenjouin sibling couldn't pull off.

The photos ended with a tiny “Here Comes the Thunder” sweater, the insignia against a dark blue, and his reply to it was given in the seconds between stiff bows and words of gratitude that he had rehearsed hundreds of times.

Maybe Judai did have a point.

Aside from a few unexpected questions, his manager quick to intervene and cover his microphone, her objections immediate, the press conference went exactly as they had planned, just like the performance that it was. He knew when to scowl, when to give a mocking laugh, and the Ojamas marched across the podium, their “Go Thunder!!” regalia on, Ojama Green and Black holding blue-black banners.

They left the studios with the side entrance, and he stood in place, marker in one hand, and signed things until Misako yanked him away, Judai already in the back of the van and frowning at something outside the tinted window.

“So, _this_ is what your job is like?” he asked, and when Manjoume slammed his door shut, he noticed that they were actually alone in the back seat, the middle row also empty. Misako drove, her earpiece on and some conversation about his schedule already started. Two corporate cars tailed them, and he recognized the head of his management agency in one, a group of stylists packed into the other.

Leaning against one hand, Judai waited for him, and buildings passed outside, the white curve of their destination shuttered by corporate towers.

“More or less,” he said, and he sank against the seat. Less than five hours.

Fuck.

“Do they at least let you eat lunch?”

The bag of instant meals, canned coffee, and bottled water was in its usual place, and Judai raised his eyebrows when Manjoume threw it onto the middle seat, one can rolling out.

“Help yourself.”

“I...guess?” He watched as Judai unpacked a somewhat-dented onigiri, that frown still turning his face, and Manjoume _knew_ what was going happen next, but he couldn't take it. Judai made it too obvious. “Hey, Manjoume, maybe-”

“We’re going over Edo's deck again,” he said, and the van lurched around a corner, the motion pulling him back. “We’ll start with the standard decklist. If there's time, give me a few rounds against it.”

“You sure that's a good idea?”

“It's more useful than just sitting here, and-” Another flash of the stadium, its wide ring of displays on. Judai's leg was against his. “Look, I get it, but I can't argue with you right now. Just go along with it. Please.”

The copy of Edo's Destiny Hero deck had been printed on standard white paper, and each portrait was crossed with “UNOFFICIAL” in block letters. When Judai held his own cards, he ran his fingers over them carefully, sometimes tapping at them with his thumb and humming to himself, and out of the thousands of duelists Manjoume had crossed in his career, no one could play as fast as Judai, like he had already determined every possible counter, like he already knew that he could match them.

With the copied deck, it was different, strange, but Judai could still knock him out in under ten turns, the record set at three. Another defeat was hammered in, and he shuffled the Ojamas before setting them back down, another declaration.

\---

“-and he always runs three copies of Solid Soldier and two of Shadow Mist. So, I think it's a safe bet that he wouldn't change his monster cards. The spell cards are a different story.”

“...Right.”

“Uh… Manjoume?”

His spare cards were on his knees, and he put one into his deck, swapping out Snowman Eater. “What?”

“Did...someone invite Kaiba?” Judai asked, and when Manjoume turned around, his cards slipped through his parted fingers, unseen as he watched the Blue-Eyes White Jet streak across the sky towards the massive stadium. They were less than a block away, the walls rising over them like a crushing wave.

The jet dove for the tower fused to the stadium before righting itself, the artificial wings thrown out, and unless there happened to be a _second_ multi-billionaire tech-genius who had a fucking airplane modeled after his favorite monster card, it could only be one person.

“His name's on the side of the building. No one needs to invite him.”

Judai laughed. “Ah, is that how it works? Must be nice.”

He had wanted to answer Judai and maybe just stay _there_ in the shadow cut by the stadium that rose and rose, ringed by branches of lightning and curls of fire, but the seconds were going past him, each one not enough.

\---

He had the dream of being a famous duelist before either one of his brothers told him to have it. He had ignored the books his tutors gave him for cheap dueling magazines with pull-out posters, the new releases always in the first section, right after the cover, and maybe the high stakes now were the ones that he craved for a long time, the hopes he had clung to during many dark, sinking defeats.

But a dream was a fragile thing. Humiliation could puncture it.

He could break it open.

When his manager told him that legendary CEO of Kaiba Corp would announce the start of the duel, he gave the correct response, which was to nod slightly and send his regards. When the architect of the sprawling stadium lead himself and his entourage onto the stage, he stared at the many tiers of empty seats. Closed, the ceiling showed an artificial battle, two dragons clashing and then breaking apart, their claws clenched like the talons of birds of prey.

But he fucked up as he followed Misako down from the tenth floor to the dressing room, the head of his management agency at her side and making wide gestures with every hurried word. “-confirmed to air in over one-hundred-and-fifty countries, and we'll have to wait on the viewership data, but the count should be in the hundreds of millions, with the reruns putting us at-”

The acidic taste of bile, and then he slapped a hand over his mouth. His knees had locked, and he had already ducked his head, as if ready to apologize, as if ready for someone to yell at him for showing weakness.

But the sound never came, even though he waited for it – staring and staring at the white tiled floor, trying to keep still as the tremors moved up his wrists and coiled in his hands.

Judai, as it turned out, had a special talent for finding empty rooms, and, blinking, he looked up at a wall of computer monitors, all off. The desks were empty. Judai's hands were on his shoulders, and his eyes were clear, focused.

“If you're really going to throw up, I'd like some warning first,” Judai said with a bright smile, and Manjoume shook his head, his next breath catching on something in this throat.

“Where...are the others? Judai, you can't just drag me away like this. My schedule, it's…”

“Well, nobody tried to stop me,” was Judai's reply, given with a light laugh.

The tremors had slowed, his white-knuckled grip on his own arms, and the details of the bare room were coming in – the slate-grey tiles, the closed door. Judai's hands stayed on him, pressing in as if they could make it stop.

What a fucking mess.

“I need to get back.”

“I mean, your manager does have both of our numbers,” Judai said, and he straightened to his full height. “Not sure why, but I have a feeling that at least one of us would get a call if there was some urgent crisis, like no one being there to bow to the head of some family or a guy who owns an insurance company.”

Manjoume winced, and then he cursed himself for it. Judai's grip had tightened.

“Okay, different strategy. So, uh, could you give me your deck for a second?”

A duelist's deck was a piece of themselves, the bond like a tangible thing that could be snapped apart when the cards were taken in by someone else, and Judai _had_ to know that even better than he did.

“You can't be serious.”

“I'll give it back,” Judai said, grinning. “No offense, but I think the Ojamas would annoy Yubel too much.”

Manjoume scowled, and when he stepped back, Judai's hands slipped away. But, still, he undid the clasp on his holster and gathered his cards, the Ojamas stirring with the contact, some yawning against their portraits. The first card was Ojama Country – white-washed houses with wooden nameplates, the lines warped by the rain. The pathways there curved as they ran up the hillside from the village center, the wheel of the well creaking with even the slightest breeze, its rope worn and frayed. Vines had grown over it, twisting between the stones.

Carefully, he shuffled the cards together, and he looked up at Judai through his bangs. They had fallen over his narrowed eyes, and he broke the silence that had set in, his scowl baring his teeth.

“If you're going to take _my_ deck, then I deserve to know what this 'strategy’ of yours entails. That is, if you've even thought that far ahead.”

The way Judai reached up to scratch the back of his head said everything. He hadn't.

How typical.

“Let's...just start with step one. You can take my deck until I'm done with yours, if you want.”

Manjoume snorted. _“Why_ exactly would I want to inflict your heroes on myself?” And, with one smooth motion, he strode forward and shoved his deck into Judai's hands, the Ojamas jolting awake and swarming the person who held them, ogling him like wide-eyed goldfish in a tank. And then the protests started, Ojama Black bashing Judai with his tiny fists while Ojama Yellow began to cry.

“B-Boss?! Don't abandon us!”

“Huh? Why are we with _this_ guy?”

“Take him out, Thunder!”

“Stop complaining,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face and then shoving his bangs back. He breathed in, and the short distance, less than thirty centimeters, was like an itch inside his skull, shifting and building off itself as Judai stared at the cards and slowly flipped them over. But they still belonged to him, no one else.

And then Judai stopped, his eyebrows raised.

“So, you're really going for it?”

Only one card could get that reaction, the one he had thrown in without looking at it.

“Obviously.”

“Baiting Edo into a move like that…” Judai trailed off. “Huh. Might be tough with an Ojama deck. Plus, Edo tends to swarm the field, so there might not be a lot of heavy hitters.”

“You're acting like I don't already know that.”

Judai tapped the card, his expression blurred by that of Yubel – an open-mouthed grin, the fangs extended.

“But if you could pull it off…”

The sound from the crowd would be like an explosion, pushing at and pulsing against the pristine stadium, as if it could break down the solid walls, crash through them like a massive wave and leave only a shattered husk behind. A force like that. A _power_ like that.

It could be enough to smother a growing flame.

“Edo wanted a show, so I'll give him one,” he said, but then he hesitated again, that fucking _fear_ rattling in his hands, like coins in a jar that someone just kept shaking. “Just… Look, I know the composition is wrong. I could carry this thing in my hand for the entire duel, but you can't talk me out of it.”

“I wasn't going to.”

“...What?”

Judai shrugged. “Yes, it's a huge risk, but that's how you play, Manjoume. Why should anyone try to change that?”

Shaking his head, he took the deck back, the first slide of his fingers over the bare cards making the Ojamas go still. Their whimpers cut off.

“Stop being so dramatic,” he muttered, unclasping his holster again. “He didn't even want to keep you.”

“W-Wait, don't say it like _that_ ,” Judai quickly added, and Manjoume almost laughed as he put the deck away. He straightened his lapels next, then his cufflinks.

He decided that it had to be a control room of some kind, unused at the present. If a few Kaiba Corp logos were struck off the computers, it could have doubled as a movie set, empty of any personal touches, something artificial about the ways the chairs were set in place. A single fingerprint would have marred the glassy desks that segmented the room.

They weren't really alone, not in a building like this that had to be wired down to the last millimeter, the nests of cables the veins that kept it working. The closed door could open at any second.

Judai was the one who started, his smile devilish at the edges.

“You know, I was thinking about buying you flowers again.”

And Manjoume was slow to counter, but he gave a low smirk of his own, his fingers at his cufflinks. He tested them.

“Is this your way of distracting me, Judai?”

“Well, if you need a distraction like that, I'd be happy to help out,” Judai said, and Manjoume rolled his eyes at the ridiculous line, as if he hadn't been on the verge of snapping open only minutes ago, as if meant nothing that the fear had ran through him like a blade.

But just the thought of touching Judai again was distracting enough, and his eyes raked across Judai’s chest, the black fabric worn down and thin. Those weeks of watching Judai strut around his apartment in sleeveless shirts had been more than just frustrating, and that last night had already gotten to him. A switch had been flipped and was now stuck in place. Part of it had broken off.

“Although, I should warn you that next time I'm not giving you the upper hand like that. Expect to see a different side of me.”

“You're all talk,” Manjoume stated, and he arched an eyebrow when Judai stepped closer. The black shirt was much better than that fucking Kaiba Corp monstrosity.

Judai smiled wider. “No, I’m really not.”

Prove it, he wanted to say. Maybe the flash of that smile made his fingers curl in.

Instead, he kept his voice even. His phone would go off any moment.

“Good luck with that. I’m not the type to give up control, especially to someone like you.”

“Ah, well…” And then Judai stopped, his head angled as if a few more centimeters would bring their mouths together, and Manjoume, blinking fast, tried to force that thought out of his head. Flirting, fine. Making out in a sort-of public place hours before the biggest match of his career, less fine.

“Let’s get out of here.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Judai laughed. “I’ll try to stay out of trouble.”

\---


	18. Inferno

\---

It didn’t work, as Judai made it about five steps down the hallway before a very muscular security guard appeared out of nowhere and demanded to see his security pass, but because Manjoume was, conveniently, the indomitable Manjoume Thunder, the lecture was cut short.

“Unbelievable. Dumb luck only gets you so far, Judai.”

But Judai wasn’t listening, ramming a hand against his own forehead and mumbling, “Yubel, give me a _little_ more warning next time, and… What signal? N-No you didn’t!”

Because they were in an elevator going down to the ground floor, he couldn’t _exactly_ stride away and leave Judai to talk to himself. Or to Yubel. Same thing.

That gave him the totally-welcomed, not-at- _all_ -irritating privilege of listening to one half of a very boring and pedantic conversation, Judai throwing his hands up at what _had_ to be an excellent comeback from his previously-murderous soulmate. It was obvious who the brains of the operation was.

When he threw open the door to his dressing room, the chaos started back up again, a stylist immediately going for his overcoat while another shoved an eyeliner pencil at him, and Judai ended up with Misako, her phone down as she asked what, judging from Judai’s expression, had to be a strange question, a problem more difficult than subtracting attack points from defense points.

Unthinking, he had already stripped off his shirt, a quick measurement taken of his shoulders. Everything for that duel would be high impact, and he slowly sank into his role, his persona. The eyeliner went on heavier than it normally did, turned up at the edges and then smudging out. The contour was heavier than that, his high cheekbones knife-like. Set in thick ridges, his bangs shadowed his grey eyes.

Next was the shirt, long-sleeved and high-collared but with a jagged pattern of opaque black over translucent grey. From a distance, the black cut down in a lightning-bolt diagonal, the grey over his ribs and across his collarbone, two asymmetrical panels just above the hard line of his studded belt. Tight against his skin, it was something of a risk, more than just a fitted dress shirt. But if Edo fucking Phoenix could shoot ten perfume ads a year, each more outrageous than the last and somehow making him _more_ shirtless each time, then he could wear whatever he wanted.

He left the coat open, its tails dragging on the floor, and the seams and tears were emphasized with a darker black, the lining the same colour. His insignia marked the back, the widest part across his shoulder blades before it tapered down. No one had added his name below it. That was now unnecessary.

The world knew him.

The room was packed with stylists and handlers, and Judai was leaning against the opposite wall. The mirror caught his fixed expression, and Manjoume met it with a slanted smirk, aware of what he looked like.

During the first meeting with the designer, he had surprised Misako by not immediately rejecting the sketch, the skin-tight shirt and fitted mock-leather pants a divergence for him. Maybe he had been thinking about the heavy feeling of Judai’s eyes on him.

Maybe he had already craved it.

\---

But interruptions were fast and frequent, the moment spiralling even closer than before. The press photos were one thing, blinding flash bulbs going off as he stood by a promotional banner, the screens and cheers a solid wall of noise. The exclusive message to his fan club was next. Misako, changed into a studded sheath dress and spiked black heels, held the camera, but the lines were all his own.

“Looks good,” she said, swiping through the video. “The latex is quite photogenic, and I’m sure we’ll get some feedback from your more, ah, dedicated fans.”

“Is _that_ what this is?” he asked, pushing up his coat sleeve and turning his wrist over. The sheen from the black shifted. Without the coat, it would’ve been too much. The effect was calculated.

She changed the subject. “Twenty minutes until you should be on your mark. Is this acceptable?”

“Why would I complain about that?”

She almost smiled.

The room had started to empty itself, and tradition dedicated that he would soon have the dubious pleasure of bowing to the Duel Network president, as if he hadn't seen the same man face-down on a dessert plate the night before. The representative from Kaiba Corp was not the legendary CEO but rather his younger brother, Mokuba, who Manjoume knew better than to underestimate. His brothers were likely still reeling from the aggressive takeover of one of their burgeoning technology companies by a subsidiary of Kaiba Corp, one that seemed to be like an analog stick under Mokuba's thumb.

“My brother will open the duel, so prepare for his speech,” Mokuba said, and Manjoume nodded. “The earpiece on your headset will give the ready signal, just like we discussed with your management team, and there shouldn’t be any… Oh. Hey, Judai.”

Judai coughed and slowly moved away from the wall. “Uh. H-Hey, Mokuba. How’s it going?”

Smirking, the younger Kaiba tossed back his shoulder-length hair, the messy cut a contrast with his tailored white suit. “Oh, you know, just revolutionizing the field of neuromorphic engineering. This whole place is rigged with bio-neural circuitry, and our artificial synapses fire at more than three billion times per second. The amount of information we can move around is enough to blow your mind,” he added, nodding at Judai, and Manjoume tried to look like he understood _some_ of what Mokuba had just said. Computers were involved, probably. “Plus, it makes training our DNNs easy, since they need a lot training trials to reach the complexity that Seto wants.”

“…Yeah, networks. Good stuff.” Judai coughed again, and then he tried to lead the conversation. Badly. “So, you doing the commentary for the duel today?”

Mokuba’s expression could only be described as ‘condescending’. “My memory’s a lot better than you think it is, Judai. You still owe me for the tablet.”

“What tablet?” Manjoume asked, and Judai appeared to be using him as a human shield, Mokuba’s sudden glare hitting his chest. The family resemblance became obvious.

“Yuki Judai knocked my tablet off a twenty-three-story building on December the fourteenth of-”

“W-Wait, hold on!” Judai yelped, his hand landing on Manjoume’s shoulder as he took a deep breath, somehow nervous yet giving one of those bright, playful smiles. “For context, me and Yubel _did_ stop those guys from taking you for ransom, so…”

“You still knocked my tablet off the roof. I mean, we make them pretty sturdy, but not _that_ sturdy.”

“See? I gave you an idea for something to work on! Technically, you could say that I helped you out, right?”

Manjoume sighed. “Judai, do I even want to know _how_ exactly you ended up in this situation?”

“…Probably not. It involves me and Yubel dodging some security guards.”

“ _Our_ security guards,” Mokuba stated.  

“W-Well…”

“You’re the only person who ends up in these situations,” Manjoume said, and Judai’s smile was on him next. “I might have to put a GPS tracker on you. Or maybe a leash.”

Although, that last word had been too far, and Manjoume realized it a millisecond too late. Judai’s eyebrows shot up while Mokuba looked between them very quickly, some realization processing.

Damn it.

And then Mokuba adjusted his tie. “I…officially know too much about you, Manjoume. Also, we should get going. There are a bunch of V.I.Ps who want to meet you and Edo, plus I need a pre-duel selfie.”

“Is…that a requirement?”

But he went along with it anyways, Judai walking ahead through the maze of hallways, and Mokuba was quick to bring up the subject of the tablet again. He recognized most of the supposed V.I.Ps in the dark backstage area, more multi-billionaires and heirs to various fortunes and industries, but he suspected that the thirty-somethings in t-shirts and jeans that gawked at him were Mokuba’s friends.

The translucent chains that trailed Edo were taunt like restraints. They coiled around his right hand, but he still nodded with perfect ease, his pretty-boy smile on full display as some corporate investor greeted him. Matched with a deep-red suit, his grey tie was slashed with blue.

He hadn’t greeted Judai yet, and Manjoume saw the change as Edo stared at him, cold, the coil tightening and sinking through his skin. Mokuba did get his picture, ducking in front of Edo and throwing a too-cordial arm around Manjoume’s shoulders as he complained about his number of followers. Edo’s expression didn’t crack. He was too good for that.

They were each set to rise up in the middle of the stage through a trap door, the challenger first and the defender next, the positions determined solely by rank, and the hallways below the stage were narrow, the ceiling low. Cables threaded the supports of the bare walls. A mechanical drumming echoed his steps, Edo’s out of sync.

Somehow Judai had tagged along, slipping away from the staff and making it in through the security door.

“You’re going to get in trouble again,” Manjoume said, glancing over his shoulder. “I take it you’re relying on _me_ to get you out of it?”

Judai shrugged. “Seems safe enough. I have this weird feeling that you like me.”

“Impossible.”

“Ah, don’t deny it…”

The hallway opened up to a small rectangular room, the two platforms set in the middle and ringed with the holo-platforms that Kaiba Corp remained famous for. Technicians were unnecessary. The countdown would be given through their earpieces, and the noise from the stadium had already started to bleed through, an announcer’s voice rising over the fast thrum of the Pro League’s theme, the notes cut by the screeches of monsters and the recorded gasps of their fans. A compilation video, one of many. The call of Armed Dragon sounded next, the mechanical roar broken by the burst of its devastating attack.

“After my first loss against you, I almost didn’t notice the second one,” Edo said, and his jaw was set. Judai met his glare. “I remember…shuffling my cards and then starting the next turn, as if that first loss could still be erased so easily.”

“Edo…?”

“Of course, it couldn’t. I only added to it, and I suppose that if anyone could’ve knocked me off the summit, then it would’ve been you, Judai.” He laughed to himself, his hands in his pockets. The chains pushed up like knotted veins. “There are…some things I can’t overcome. My time has stopped again, even if the time of the world continues on.”

Judai shook his head. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s the truth.”

Judai stood in front of him, determination etched into the line of his profile, into his high shoulders. And maybe Edo was right about one thing, that it wasn’t the time for this. The head announcer had already jumped to the next topic. Minutes, followed by seconds.

“Edo, when you dueled against me, it wasn’t as someone who was trapped. You were yourself at that moment. The Destiny Heroes, they belonged to you.” Judai paused, the motes of orange-green scattering. “You can feel their emotions, can’t you?”

But Edo wasn’t listening, something gaunt about his expression, like some vital part of him had suddenly been cut out. In the distant alleyway littered with broken glass, the green shards had been dotted with the red of fresh blood.

“I’ve been ranked first in the Pro League for almost three years now. There’s only one member of the Pro League with a record better than that,” Edo said, and Manjoume froze, his eyes wide as they took in the cold of Edo’s, like bare shards of glass waiting to dig in. “Time is pushing me closer to him, DD, but I’m still the person I used to be. It’s wrong somehow. I…have to move my time again, but it’s stuck.”

“Edo, just remember that we’re-”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Throwing his head back, Edo stopped for a moment, and then he took a card out of his front pocket, hidden by the jet-black pocket square – Clock Tower Prison. “Is _this_ evidence enough for you? I can’t put it down, even after all of these years.”

In interviews, the topic of Edo’s past was forbidden, and the very mention of it would be met with sarcasm, short answers, and an immediate blacklisting of whoever had been stupid enough to test him. The legacy of DD had been buried, the news of his crimes finding their way through public channels and ripping into that once-lauded reputation with each barbed word, but it couldn’t have meant nothing to Edo. It had built many of the stadiums they played in.

It had lived inside the Pro League for so long, festering like the rot that it was.

“Makes sense. It’s not a bad card.” Judai shrugged, and Edo almost snarled, flicking the card back into place.

Manjoume interrupted next. “So, that’s what this duel is to you, Edo. It’s not about the changes to the Pro League at all. Hell, it’s not really about our last duel.” Plasma had retreated, leaving only those curling chains. He clicked his tongue. “It’s about you throwing some burden on me, as if I should give up _my_ victory just to appease you and your delusions. Such an underhanded tactic… I’m almost disappointed that you’ve resorted to this.”

“Oh, please. Don’t make such baseless accusations,” Edo snapped. “I’m not asking for you to take a dive. I don’t need that kind of pity from anyone.”

“I should pity you,” he said, and this time Edo took a step forward, his gaze pure ice. “You’re at the highest position a duelist can rise to, but you’re inventing these stupid games instead of living up to your title. Don’t mistake what I just said. It’s _your_ title, Edo. Why the fuck would you want to share it with a person like _that_?”

“I shouldn’t have expected you to understand.” And it was deliberate, the dark look Edo gave him. “Defeating you will correct an error from my past, a challenge that I left incomplete for too long. It might start my time again. It might…stop whatever this is.” Another dark look, edged with desperation, but it was covered quickly, his composure a smooth veneer. Straight white teeth. The careless flick of his head to the side.

If the chains had been real, they would have pressed hard enough to make red marks, the kind of pressure that would have hurt.

“Sorry, but I feel like playing the villain today. It won’t be easy for you to recover after, Manjoume.”

“I’m not the type to back down,” he answered, and the music had changed, the roar of the crowd pushing down. “A defeat should snap you out of that mindset, and I wouldn’t let it confirm your delusions because you’re…” He shook his head, aware of the seconds ticking away. The voices climbed higher. “You’re…stronger than this, Edo. I’ll show you.”

Edo turned away.

Even though Judai said nothing, their eyes still met. He nodded.

Earlier that day, his main priority had been not throwing up in front of the cameras, but it had shifted hard, the twisted red of Edo’s healed-over knuckles ugly, a sign of something that had burrowed deeper and taken hold of him like a taut chain. But it was fine. No one else could duel like Manjoume Thunder.

He would be the hero again.

“I’m ready for it,” he said, _stated_. He stepped onto the platform, the lights already a solid blue. “Judai, I’ll make sure that Edo Phoenix comes back as someone we’d both want to duel again, maybe in an arena even bigger than this. That’s my promise as the challenger today.”

Even though he had seen it thousands of times, he could never get over the way Judai smiled – pure sunlight, something that turned his chest hollow.

“Sounds good to me. Us hero-users have to look out for each other, don’t we?” he asked, and Edo, pointedly, did not respond, his arms crossed. But Judai had a point, and he knew it, continuing with the same smile. “Hey, Edo, have you thought about a rematch? If you’ve still got some energy after this duel, maybe I’d consider bringing out my Neo-Spacians again…”

“Back off, Slifer. Wait for your turn before you start messing with _my_ opponent,” he barked.

And whatever Judai had been about to say was cut off by the sudden burst of static in his ear, the sound from above pulsing harder than before: the mention of his name followed by the shout of Ojama King, loud enough that it drowned out all else. The platform's lights dimmed, the dark blue his colour, and he leaned down as it started to raise. The floor of the stadium split open. The cacophony poured in.

“I bothered to get you one of the best seats in this entire building, so don't you dare miss my introduction.”

“W-Wait! You _did_?” Judai yelped, and he turned over the badge around his neck, TEAM THUNDER spelled out in bold.

“Obviously. It's one of the many privileges of knowing me,” he said, and then the signal was screeching in his ear, the spotlight driving down through the gap. In another world, a different time, he would have taken Judai by the back of the neck and kissed him hard enough to take in his next breath, to push together all their jagged edges and make them fit as the world turned and turned. But the timing was wrong.

Edo already had enough to tease him about, minus any semi-public makeout sessions with his main rival.

But he still tried, ducking down as the platform rose and throwing his headset up, aware that Judai was laughing like the moment was a different one, as if the distance between them was growing thinner. Tens of thousands were screaming.

“Also, if you bring me _red_ flowers again, I'm really going to throw you out.”

Quickly, Judai nodded, and he shouted back, “Okay, okay! You don't have to tell me twice.”

“Also, fill in the card. Details are important.”

“R-Right… Maybe I should start a list…?”

Idiot. Manjoume leaned back, smiling to himself, but it wasn't the expression he showed as the platform rose higher and then broke through, into the pulsing lights.

His name fell like a heavy rain.

\---

“-and, after a historic rise through the ranks of our Pro League, he defeated the New Kaiser in what has to be one of the greatest comebacks we've ever seen! One card out of place, and-”

He walked to his mark, a black cross on the stadium floor, each tile a bright screen full of shifting colours. Nothing unexpected showed on his face, set in a slanting, arrogant smirk, and he had shoved his hands in his coat pockets, his duel disk folded in. When he stopped, he threw his head back and set his gaze on the nearest camera, the crane supporting it pivoting and then dropping. The image stretched across the screens that banded the stadium, his high collar studded with his blue insignia.

“-and _this_ is the Thunder the fans have been waiting for! He's ragged! He's torn up!”

“But have we ever seen him this intense before? This clash with the Phoenix has changed him, maybe even-”

The tiers of seats were the ribs that held the curved walls in place, ending at the bowl of the closed ceiling. It sparked with lightning, white against black, and every strike broke the noise of the crowd, a rumble in the back of his head. It took the edge off the too-fast voices in his earpiece.

The Ojamas were close to him. Ojama Yellow's teeth chattered together. Those small, shaking hands clung to the front of his coat.

He waited for his cue, feigning disinterest.

“-and now, we're all waiting for him, Manjoume. The duelist who-!”

He threw his hand out, and the lighting changed, a stark teal blue.

“Stop! That's not how you should address me!”

But it had never been so loud before, the impact of that first number.

“One!”

“Ten!”

\---

When the lights turned orange, the energy inverted. A sudden quiet, tenuous. The barbed silhouettes of the Destiny Heroes marked the many screens, and the tiles below him sank into black, like a thick night had taken over the stadium.

And the announcers could not praise him enough, the legacy of the Phoenix known to every duel monsters fan, and furls of flame parted the black, each one tapered like a dropped feather.

And, in the near-dark, Manjoume breathed in, aware of the ripples from the audience, the gasps and whispers. The Ojamas had crawled further into his coat, Ojama Blue a huddled mess at the nape of his neck. The orange flared at the first mention of Edo's name, streaks of it crossing the ceiling and bursting. The Solid Vision rained ash.

 “W-Woah…”

“Stay strong, Ojamas! We’ve beat that Edo guy before! Why can’t we do it again?”

“I-I-I d-don’t-”

“Toughen up, Blue! Trust the boss!”

Another compilation video was next, the ash fading as the Destiny Heroes struck again and again, tight fists and serrated weapons. Duelists fell one after another, overcome by the monsters that swarmed them, that overtook them like throwing knives, each finding its target. At corporate parties, Edo kept his shield up until the attention started to drop away, and maybe their first encounters had been less than ideal, Manjoume the one wracked by something like jealousy, every new suit digging into his bank account while Edo’s management team bought private jets. And yet, Edo had still found him again and again, always wearing the same practiced smile, and even back then, back when Edo had first broke into the top five, those knuckles had been split too many times. Sometimes Edo had worn a cast, the justice he carried out direct, dangerous.

Evidently, hero-users had a bad habit of turning into self-destructive idiots.

It was with a deafening roar that the announcers called for Edo Phoenix, and he already commanded them when he hit the stage, his steps to his mark slow, measured. Every screen showed his profile. Every person waited for his first words, and the announcers just kept going.

The crowd just kept screaming.

The effect would have been stronger through Judai’s eyes, the constellation of moving lights swarmed by the spirits that _had_ to be gathered here, drawn to the power that coiled and coiled in the stadium. It filled the air, sparked with every passing second, and the spirits he could see were already too much to take in: overlapping textures and colours, forms and sounds.

He looked at Edo, now on his mark and turning his head back. Red marked his shadow as Plasma began to stir – the heavy soul that weighted his deck, the stained card that Edo loved.

“I would say that it’s been a long time, Thunder,” Edo began, his words exact, “but we seem to keep running into each other. You _definitely_ haven’t shown enough respect for someone in my position, and the end of this duel should remind you of the gap between us, the reason why I’m the world’s first and no one else.”

Those stiff words were for the crowd, and they hit perfectly, the Ojamas cowering as the cheers rung out and echoed, the energy in the stadium driven even higher. None of it showed on his face, changed into something mocking, and Manjoume threw his coat out as he strode closer to Edo, his second mark a black ‘x’.

“You don’t seem to understand who I am,” he said, showing teeth. Shards of congealed blood hung from Edo’s deck holster, transparent. His eyes moved up. “If there’s anyone who can overcome a divide like this, then it’s Manjoume Thunder, the duelist who has endured defeat and risen from it. Really, you should be thanking me for the valuable experience I’m about to give you. I deserve a bow from you at least.”

Some jeers from Edo’s fanbase, the solid block of orange concentrated in the far stands, but the Ojamas started to collect themselves, Ojama Black and Green whooping as if they hadn’t heard him rehearse those lines a hundred times.

“You’re trying to provoke me, Thunder. That…is a risk, for you.”

“Just _try_ to take me out.”

Edo smirked, and there was a flash of the person he saw earlier – caged, cornered.

He understood it.

“Ah, believe me. I will.”

The declaration was broken by the sudden split of the ceiling, the two halves pulling back as the lights went down, and, like Edo, he threw his head back. He had raised one hand over his neck, Yellow and Blue curled behind it, and the engines of the Blues-Eyes White Jet roared as it lowered until the wings seemed to bridge the split halves. A line fell from it, the end less than a meter away.

The elder Kaiba, one hand in an all-white gauntlet, propelled down the line and then strode to the center of the stage, and the line suddenly snapping up as the dragon’s wings spread. The jet rose in a perfect vertical line as the dome closed with a heavy shudder. And when Manjoume was just a kid, small enough that he needed his brothers to record tournaments for him, he had watched Seto’s introduction at the KC Grand Prix _hundreds_ of times. A bone-white trench coat trailed the legendary duelist, the master of the Blue-Eyes White Dragon, and that deck had to be on him, the power like a physical blow. It had stunned him, and even Edo was blinking fast.

“Boss! Boss! Get his autograph!”

“W-Woah! He’s even taller in person!”

“Shut up,” he muttered, and _then_ he almost slapped himself, the headset wired.

The announcers would be hoarse before the duel even started, their fast words in his ear and reverberating through the stadium, the cheers surging again and again. When Seto suddenly pivoted, one hand thrown out, they stopped.

“Greetings, and welcome to a new kind of exhibition match, one hosted in my stadium. More importantly, welcome to the end of this era, as I’m sure all of you have heard about nothing but this duel for weeks now.” Seto walked closer to the edge of the stage – unscripted, no marks. “These elite duelists have both attended my academy, and the results should be obvious tonight. I don’t accept anything less than perfection.”

“Uh… Pressure’s on, Boss!”

Ojama Green was not helpful, and Manjoume ignored him.

“The duel tonight will demonstrate not only what this generation has achieved, but also why the proposed changes to the Pro League’s system are short-sighted. Any duel monsters fan should be disgusted.”

When Seto flipped up his own headset, the meaning was obvious, and Manjoume, like Edo, waited for the CEO to start again, the Solid Vision forcing the shadows of unseen dragons over them, circling the stage like waiting vultures.

“For added incentive, I’ll throw in a duel against any living duelist for the victor. Doesn’t matter if they’ve retired. Pick anyone you want, since there’s not much that a donation from Kaiba Corp can’t fix, but don’t make it a waste of my time.”

“Yes, of course,” Manjoume said quickly, and Edo nodded. “Thank you for your continued support.”

Seto scoffed. A draconic shadow lowered. “If you want to thank me, then don’t disappoint me or the people gathered here. Same goes for you, Phoenix.”

“Understood.”

With a final glare, his eyes raking over them both, Seto turned and continued towards the edge of the stage, the shadows clustering around him. When he threw his hand up again, a cable shot out from the gauntlet and hit the metal beams grafted to the observation deck, two announcers squealing as the third tried to relay what just happened. The elder Kaiba had punctuated his tournaments with helicopters, planes, jet packs, blimps, and massive fleets of drones, but the spectacle could never wear off, Manjoume gaping just like everyone else as Seto retracted the cable and flew through the air, landing side-ways on the bottom of the observation deck and then, with one hand, flipping over the railing, white coat-tails trailing like a banner.

“I…think we’ve just been upstaged,” Edo said with a rare smile.

But it was quickly submerged again, that strange, desperate thing still present. Manjoume knew that he was frowning at Edo, the wrong expression for this point in their exchange, but fuck it.

He kept his headset up. “Edo, I almost quit the Pro League before I broke into the top fifty. I actually considered taking a job at my brothers’ company, some position where I would’ve done nothing and become no one. If anyone knows about circling back to the past again and again, then it’s me, but…you can’t _let_ that feeling take over. It’s not real.”

“Don’t hold back,” was all Edo said, and then the lights were back. The cameras were on.

He grit his teeth.

\---

And he knew better than to put his guard down after his first attack went through, Ojama Knight’s sword in his opponent’s chest as the crowd roared and roared. The village pushed in around them, the thin flower-stalks that grew above the white-plastered houses shifting with an unfelt breeze. The sword pulled back, and the knight returned to his side, the Solid Vision tracking the reflections of its armor.

“Boss! Boss!”

“H-Hey, don’t let _him_ get all the glory!”

Ojama Yellow, despite _technically_ having one copy of himself in the graveyard, pelted Manjoume with his tiny fists. “Play your ace monster! Come on, Boss!”

“I end my turn,” was all he said, and Edo’s next card was Destiny Draw. It encompassed what that deck did – cycle through its cards and fill the graveyard with monsters. Monsters could be pulled from either with perfect ease, and the two locked-off monster zones would not stay that way for long. The field spell would be taken out in seconds. He _knew_ it, and yet-

The village shattered like a pane of glass.

Hunks of white plaster slammed into the ground. Wooden fences crumbled, split open and spread their shards over the fractured ground. The stones for their chimneys had been taken from the river, hauled up the rolling hills with careful hands, but they still fell like the others. They still cracked open, and, transparent, the rubble fell through him as the village collapsed on itself, a wooden nameplate with blurred character passing through his shaking hand. The pale sky had melted away like a film of ice over warm water, the thin shell of a frozen-over lake.

In the real Ojama village, the fence posts were held together with twine and rope, not nails. The well had been on the wrong side, and the statue had not stood in the middle of the bare plaza, always wrapped in laundry lines, banners, or flowers, thin white and yellow shapes with long stems that curled as they dried out. This season, the piled vegetables would be radishes and potato-things, not cabbages and purple leeks. The winged Ojamas shed feathers everywhere, and Bell, she would always-

The nameplate cracked as it became dust, the bare floor of the stage left to fill the place where it used to be. His fists tightened. His jaw had clenched, and, for a moment, he heard nothing as pieces of the village continued to fall, the spirits watching with wide-eyed terror and silent tears. They held each other.

Edo stood at the opposite end of the stage, unmoving as another house had its foundations ripped away and slammed against the stage, bursting apart.

“Edo, you're...going to pay for this,” he heard himself say, and he straightened to his full height, his next breath through clenched teeth. “My Ojamas never stand alone, and an attack on their home is an attack on me. I wouldn't stand for it.”

“Oh? Is this your latest intimidation tactic, Thunder?” Edo drawled, and it wasn't his fault that Kaiba Corp's upgraded Solid Vision was too fucking good. For Manjoume, the inaccuracies came after the initial hit. The explosion had ripped into his heart.

But Edo _was_ still a convenient target for his frustration.

Mirror Force took out three Destiny Heroes, but he couldn't save Ojama Knight for long. He kept his life points high, set at 4000, but his hand had started to thin out.

The card on the left he had held for three turns, and he made the decision. He guarded his life points even though he lost precious spell and trap cards to the graveyard, even though this would have been _easier_ if he took the hits, and he went for Edo's with everything he had. He did what many, _many_ foolish duelists had tried against Edo Phoenix.

He dropped Edo to less than 1000 life points, set at 400. He had let Edo move materials to the graveyard. He had let Edo sift through his deck and gain the hand advantage, full of spell cards that would let him manipulate both the deck and the graveyard.

He had let Edo enter the position that he dominated from, and the next turn could be his last. With the graveyard stacked, Edo could counter any attack he made.

“I end my turn,” Edo said, his duel disk raised, and the field in front of him could only be described as a nightmare for most in the Pro League – four hero monsters and three face-down cards. The audience knew it, and they roared Edo's chant again and again, each syllable booming like thunder.

How ironic.

“-and here we are! Edo Phoenix is in what his fans have dubbed the 'Ruler's Peak’, a position that would be precarious for most duelists. Moderator Igarashi-san, do you think that Thunder can overcome this legendary stronghold?”

“Against a burn-style deck, the world's first would never let himself lose this many life points. However, he has now gained a considerable hand advantage, not to mention the graveyard that is full of retrievable heroes.”

“True, but Manjoume Thunder is the world's most famous Ojama player for a reason, and he's showing us why tonight, on the biggest stage of his career! Just listen to the fans!”

“Yes, although we should ask ourselves if these field clears are doing him more harm than good. I expect for us to see his opponent take control with the next turn.”

“After this duel, we may also see another re-branding of Thunder’s deck. As many keen-eyed fans will remember, he opened this year with a dragon-heavy deck before switching to only beast-type monsters. Many of our analysts wonder if the mecha-heavy style we saw from his top-thirty debut match is really retired for good!”

“…Well, that’s all a matter of speculation, of course.”

“R-Right!”

Another signal sounded in his ear, a reminder that the announcers were done with their main analysis. Hunks of white plaster still bordered the stage, bracketed by the wooden beams that had split.

Ojama Yellow was by his ear, a curious voice. “B-Boss, is it true? Are we in trouble?!”

Ojama Black piped up from his elbow. “Nah, no way!”

The nameplate at his feet had turned into pixelated dust.

At the expense of his already-thin hand and his entire back row, Ojama Yellow had joined with his brothers and ended Edo's battle phase, and that would lead into Ojama Delta Hurricane. Green Baboon was in his hand, the attack points set at 2600, and he couldn't use the summoning condition, every life point needed if he was going to survive the impact.

And, of course, he was missing the last piece of that puzzle, the second copy of Shield and Sword buried in his deck.

Of all the risks he had taken, this was on a different level, more than just the declaration of an ill-fated attack or the turn of a zero-attack monster. Every second was met with frantic cheers. The announcers continued in his ear, their words hurried, overlapping.

Across the stage, Edo waited for his first move, a darkness behind his narrowed eyes, and thick drops of blood had gathered on his cards, the chains always moving, shifting. Like him, Edo had held one card for most of the duel, the one on the far right, and Manjoume stared at it, aware that even more seconds were slipping past. Time moved on.

He seized the narrow chance.

“Edo, as I'm sure you know, something special happens when the three brothers are together,” he declared, and Ojama Yellow whooped as he jumped over his hologram, the other two Ojamas sending out high-fives and toothy grins. “Prepare to lose your entire field.”

“Please,” Edo began, rolling his eyes. “This duel will end in the next three turns, although I do find your denial _somewhat_ entertaining.”

“We'll see about that… Ojamas!” He threw his arm up, the call resounding. “Ojama Delta Hurricane!”

At the sudden burst of colour, the crowd exploded, deafening, but the announcers were quick to undercut the tension. They relayed, eager, how Edo's monster effects were already triggered, dredging up two Destiny Heroes from the deck and another from the graveyard. The effect of one destroyed spell cards ricocheted across the stage like a band of lightning, striking Ojama Green down as the spirit covered his eye and cowered. The brothers screamed.

The decision had been made, but every slight tremble of the spirits he carried ran through him. Every one changed him. “I'll avenge you,” he heard himself say, the growl of his own voice low, tense.

He chose the path of fire.

“I tribute Ojama Black and Ojama Yellow,” he shouted, and he snapped the new card against his duel disk, “to summon Green Baboon - Defender of the Forest!”

Wide-eyed, the spirits turned and watched the massive beast form above the stage, its deep-set glare on their opponent as it beat its chest with massive hands, its jaws open as the war cry continued. Fanged teeth were slick with spit. The coiled muscles of its shoulders tensed below a thick hide of fur and the bark-like armor embedded into its towering body, and Manjoume had nothing else but the two cards in his hand. No set cards. No other counters.

Only this.

“I end my turn.”

Edo raised an eyebrow. “A word of advice. Some duelists find the special summoning condition of that card useful.”

“Focus on yourself.”

“Hmm. If you insist,” Edo said, shrugging, and the announcers broke into the conversation, their speculation loud in his earpiece while Edo gave his hand a twisted look, considering the next move. Or, rather, _pretending_ to consider it.

Damn him.

“-but tribute summoning Green Baboon is not the only off-meta play here. Notably, Manjoume Thunder did not declare an attack, despite Green Baboon, in attack position, having the clear advantage! W-Was this a blunder from our challenger?”

“Ah, forgive me, but you're forgetting about the new support spells incorporated in the Destiny Hero deck. The spell card that Edo sent to the graveyard three turns previously allows for him to banish two Destiny Heroes from the graveyard or deck to negate an attack, deal 500 points of direct damage, and end his opponent's battle phase. Thunder must have considered this.”

“...Oh! Right! M-My apologies, Igarashi-san!”

“However, your assessment of the duel is still correct. It's possible that, and excuse my pun, our challenger really has lost his thunder.”

“Will our duel end this turn?! Can Thunder overcome this onslaught?”

“Just you watch,” he muttered to himself, and the Ojamas were hanging off him again, Ojama Blue and Ojama Yellow shoving close to his face as they ogled his two cards.

“Uhhh… Boss?” He tilted his head, and Ojama Yellow spun around, blinking fast. “W-Why do you have Inferno Tempest?”

But he had no time to answer, Edo suddenly flinging his hand out, and a single card turned, the portrait stark red and blue.

The shards of gathered blood fell from the card, and Edo breathed in hard, his cold eyes flashing.

“I tribute all three of my monsters to special summon Destiny Hero - Plasma!”

The lights went out.

Slowly, the three monsters were consumed, their bodies turning cold grey, blank, and then sinking into the growing pool below. Ahead of him, Green Baboon pounded its club against the stage, and Plasma began as dark curls of blood, the liquid dripping away as it rose, its arms spread out in the start of a macabre embrace.

With open wings, Plasma rose higher, and the stadium had never been this loud, the fans pressed against the pulse of the duel and taken in by the too-fast thrum of it. The Ojamas had their grimy hands on his face, the wailing something he had to endure.

Unthinking, he jerked his headset microphone up, and the beast in front of him had glanced back, its nostrils flaring as it hefted the club higher.

“Hey, I'll get you out of it, so just hold on,” he said, and the old spirit just snorted and then turned to face its opponent. The club hit the stage again. Another proud roar.

It was the final roar because Plasma had already dived, its grey-membrane wings unfurling just before its claws rasped against the tiles, and Green Baboon struggled against the sudden embrace, but the grey consumed it more and more. The slow plunge continued until the beast was sealed underneath the moving, pulsing membrane, its sharp calls muffled and broken.

Perfectly still, Edo watched it happen. A length of chain crossed his neck and then disappeared, phasing out of sight.

“Plasma takes half of the attack points of the monster it equips,” he explained, and Manjoume carefully lowered his microphone. The struggles grew weaker, and he hated it. “Therefore, his attack becomes 3200, and your field is wide open.”

“I dare you to try it,” Manjoume hissed, and Edo only smirked, his hand already extended.

“This is the beginning of your end.”

“So end me.”

Plasma had bared its teeth, but Edo's expression was bled of all emotion.

“I declare a direct attack.”

It hit.

The serrated claw ran through his stomach, and then it pulled back. His life points ticked lower and lower, and then the count stopped.

He flipped the second card and shoved it into his duel disk, the command breaking the chaotic screams. The announcers stopped, and a thick shadow grew over them all.

\---

_“Tomorrow, show them who you are.”_

\---

_“Why should anyone try to change that?”_

\---

“I activate the quick-play spell Inferno Tempest,” he yelled, and when Edo stepped back, his duel disk lowered. The shadow would have blotted out the sky, and Manjoume continued as voices rose around him, the announcers hoarse. “As I have taken more than 3000 life points in damage, all monster cards in both players’ decks and graveyards are removed. Watch what _I_ , Manjoume Thunder, will do for a chance at victory. _This_ is how I choose to duel.”

The meteor fell, and everything was consumed by the wave of fire and ash, the Solid Vision tracking the twists of the molten-red flames as they scorched through the stadium and extended up to the rafters in pillars of pure fire, their base the gargantuan rock embedded in the middle of the stage. Solid Vision sank the tiles into a deep crater, the edges all flame, and the dust circled, the bits of ash splitting apart, grey on white. The fallen meteor pulsed with a deep red, and the fires spread over the remains of the village. They crossed the space where the nameplate used to be.

It had looked like Bell's, the spirit he had promised to keep for someone that he lov-

Breathing in, Manjoume walked forward, the rubble crunching under his heels. Blackened coals crumbled, their insides tinged with red and orange, and the smoke had taken over the stadium. It covered the stands. If it were real, it would have choked him.

For the impact to cause physical pain was impossible, but the spirit of Plasma had still lurched back, its wings in a cocoon over Edo, and pure malice showed on every angle of its armored form. Something raw sank its features into an ugly sneer, the red irises tearing into him.

At the edge of the burning crater, Manjoume stopped, and the Ojamas hung off him still, tangled into his coat like thorns, worn by his collar like medals.

Slowly, Edo straightened to his full height, and a flicker of Plasma crossed him, a red burning through his blue eyes. A cutting smirk, and then he spoke.

“Let's analyze what you've accomplished here, Thunder. The way I see it, you've hurt yourself more than you've hurt me. I still have Plasma by my side. I can overcome this, so, _please_ , tell me what you have left.”

The answer was simple.

“I have one card in my hand, and there's my next draw. That's it, Edo, but it will be enough to get through to you.”

“You act like I'm operating under some mistake,” Edo countered.

“You _are_ ,” Manjoume snapped, and he tightened one fist. The sparks continued to float up, parting the thick ash. “Stopped time? What the fuck is that?! Time can't stop. It doesn't reverse, and even one loss, ten losses, or a hundred losses won't change the direction. We only move forward, Edo. I…understand that now.” He scowled, his words a harsh sound. He _did_ like Edo, buried somewhere in those memories of late-night dinners and galas. He had read the card at Ryo's bedside all those years ago, the famous signature at the bottom hurried, almost hesitant, and Ryo had lifted a fragile, bone-thin arm to take it back, his fingers cold, like glass.

But hero-users could also be stubborn idiots, and Edo looked away. “I end my turn.”

“-seen here today, as the legendary Blue-Eyes Duelist himself watches on. The dust has finally started to clear, and _who_ could have predicted this?! Both duelists are under 1000 life points, and with no monsters in either deck, Plasma stands uncontested as the strongest force in this duel.”

“Yes, at a staggering 3200 attack points, the question of how Thunder can handle this deadly threat is raised.”

The third announcer cut in. “Ah, but even taking out Plasma leaves our challenger in a difficult position, as he has exactly two cards less in his deck. We may see a Deck Out tonight.”

Manjoume tilted his head, and the remains of his deck were slotted into the usual place. The duel disk had already removed the monster cards, a subtle whirl as he had tried to yell some sense into Edo.

The meteor’s impact could burn him now, but he could claw his way back from such a defeat. He would not be crushed by old fears.

He would rise further than this.

As he lowered his hand, Ojama Blue followed the motion, biting down on his nails. His third copy of Ojama Yellow was in his hand: a single card, a 0/1000 light-attribute beast.

“B-Boss… Good luck…”

“I have my ace monster. The outcome for myself is already determined,” he said, and then he glanced up, across the labyrinth of rock and fire. He drew the card.

Absolute silence.

Winged Kuriboh hung above the right security barricade by the stage. Bobbing up and down, it blinked at him, curious. If Judai _somehow_ missed this play, then Manjoume really would throw him out, flowers or no flowers.

“I normal summon my ace monster to the field in attack position. Ojama Yellow, show yourself!”

“Wah!! It's show-time!” With a disturbing wiggle, the little spirit bounced over to its card, and the other Ojamas hooted and threw their arms up. A chant broke out.

But the crowd remained as they were, unmoving, stunned. They knew, just as he did, that only one card from his deck would counter Edo now. All copies of Ojama Country were in the graveyard, lost to him.

This was it, and he activated Shield and Sword.

He ordered an attack on Plasma, and panels of blood-red armor burst apart when Ojama Yellow threw a punch, the howl of pain rising and rising. Broad palms slammed into the grey membrane, Green Baboon answering his call, and the guardian spirit escaped as the wings were torn open, the thin shapes vein-like, and as the lights of the stadium fell to a deep grey-blue.

The crater was gone.

The silence remained, and Manjoume had already crossed the stage and dragged Edo back to his feet, the world's first hitting his knees at the first contact of that attack.

“...So, here we are again,” Edo said, and then he laughed. “I suppose I should swear revenge on you for a second time.”

“That’s your decision,” Manjoume snapped, and he let Edo's arm go, their eyes meeting. A shard of red. Plasma was protective, if nothing else. “Although, I won't back off until I hear you say it.”

“And what _exactly_ do you want from me?”

“Tell me that this hasn't happened before, that this...isn't some repeat scenario. If you're going to be a rival to me, then we can't go in circles. There's only-”

“Only forward, I get it. Are you testing out a new catch phrase?” Edo chided, but he had stopped scowling. The chains had loosened. “Fine, I’ll concede. For once, you’re right about something, Manjoume. Must be an extraordinary feeling for you, since it’s so rare.”

“Ha. Ha.”

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Edo took a step back. “Ah, don’t make that face. It’s strange if the victor frowns.”

“Like I give a fuc-”

Misako was suddenly in his earpiece. “No crude language on a prime-time broadcast!”

“…fraction…of a…thought,” he finished, blinking fast. The Ojamas gawked at him like a flock of ugly birds, Ojama Yellow already covered in a mixture of snot, tears, and sweat. His victory banner was soaked through. Gross.

Somehow, Edo managed to look extremely condescending despite, unless Manjoume had just imagined it as part of a fever dream, losing to an attack from Ojama Yellow, who was now sobbing openly against Ojama Black’s belly. Ojama Blue and Ojama Green had passed out, and Ojama Red, jumping up and down, was rambling about his last move, intimidating Ojama Yellow’s decisive punch.  

Wait, _what?!_

Manjoume slapped a hand on his chest, and that was _not_ one of his dress shirts, the fabric tight against his skin. Then he grabbed at his lapels, thick and studded, not thread-worn and smoothed down. The headset confirmed it, as did the sudden burst of the crowd around him, thousands of attentive faces. Curious duel spirits drifted through the stands, hundreds. No, _thousands_. Scales on feathers.

He was here, and he had done it.

And the bottom of his stomach fell, fell and fell, and fell even further than that.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in chapter one, I promised a longer author’s note on some of the stuff I’m referencing slash trying to do with this fic. So, here we go!
> 
> The Spirit World: To generalize, this fic is really inspired by the start of season 4 and episode 35 from season 1. In particular, the events involving Honest really kicked it off, since they really brought up the idea of cards as connecting duelists to their monsters and involving the barrier between the real and the spirit worlds. I also liked how Honest’s bond with Fujiwara was handled, and Judai being able to help Honest by taking him in was an interesting idea, especially since season 4 kicks off with a focus on Judai’s new powers. The Yubel eyes are one more example. Some other things I tried to incorporate are from episode 39 from season 1 and episodes 115-116 from season 3, namely that duel spirits can “spy” or watch the area around their cards and that spirit hunters are apparently a thing, meaning that these spirits can be harmed in some way.
> 
> The Ojama Village: The focus on Ojama Country sort of came from season 4 as well. Namely, as I reference in chapter 2, the Ojamas do see the Darkness gathering on the cards before Manjoume, Asuka, or any of the others do (I…think in episode 157 from season 4). I essentially stapled together a plot about Manjoume working with the Ojamas and trying to under them better (originally, they were making a map of Ojama Country) with one about how Judai’s powers and his affinity for duel spirits force him into isolation again. Bell was supposed to be the connection there.
> 
> Ojamas Red and Blue: I thought that Ojama Red and Ojama Blue, as non-canon cards to the original anime, would require a bit of an introduction, since the Ojamas are so important to Manjoume’s identity as a duelist. I tried to hint at them relatively early on, such as in chapter 5. Inferno Tempest, referenced in chapter 12, is used by Manjoume while at North Academy. Light and Darkness Dragon, referenced in chapter 1, is used by him in the manga. 
> 
> Assorted Yu-Gi-Oh! References: In chapter 6, Pegasus’s dialogue references the Spirit of the Ring taking out his Millennium Eye (Duelist Kingdom Arc). Because he makes the portrait for Rainbow Dragon in GX, I also thought he could show up to help Judai out later. Mokuba being kidnapped, which gets referenced in this chapter, is pretty common in the original anime, and he has shorter hair and white suit in the Dark Side of Dimensions movie. The Blue-Eyes White Jet, referenced in this chapter, makes a legendary appearance in the Pyramid of Light movie. Paradox, referenced in chapter 5, is the time-traveling villain from the Bonds Beyond Time movie, in which he steals Johan’s Rainbow Dragon card. 
> 
> Edo Phoenix: I’ve…tried to write Edo as a little “off” up to this point (i.e., he has random injuries and may be taking serious risks behind the scenes). After re-watching some episodes from season 2, I thought that there could be some unresolved tensions following his defeat of DD and, more than that, his struggles with destiny and his lingering past, epitomized by the idea of ‘stopped time’. In episode 166 of season 4, Edo does swear to repay Manjoume for his defeat in the Pro League, which seemed like a storyline that I could flesh out here. In regards to imagery, I’m taking some major liberties with the spirits that Manjoume sees. In episode 59 of season 2, Dreadmaster overlays Edo after he defeats Judai, and I basically ran with the idea. I incorporated Plasma since it’s an iconic card for him.
> 
> The Pro League: In terms of reference, I’m mostly building off of episodes 165 to 166 from season 4. I borrowed quite a bit from the idol industry (specifically the hyper-focus on image, scheduling, scandal, and performance) and the wrestling industry (mainly the idea of a “persona” and a narrative that is influenced by wins and loses). I wanted to give the impression that the Pro League is fast-paced, intense, and has a clear hierarchy behind it. 
> 
> This looks like a lot all typed out, haha! As always, thanks for reading!


	19. A Different View

\---

“W-Wait, did I just…?” He blinked faster, and Edo, who really needed to take up a damn hobby instead of getting into fist fights with the denizens of the dueling underworld, just stood there, amused. The Ojamas were one undulating mass of crying bodies, Ojama Red waving a ‘THE RUMBLE BEFORE THE THUNDER’ banner, and he held it high because Manjoume Thunder had just-

What the _fuck_?

“I…put Inferno Tempest in an Ojama deck…that was going against a Destiny Heroes deck, _your_ deck…” Sweat prickled on the back of his neck, and he suddenly flinched, his heart hammering loud and fast. “But your life points are gone, which means that I, _I_ , really just…”

Edo sighed. “Manjoume, don’t forget that you’re wired. Your real personality isn’t exactly… Ah, how do I say this politely?”

 _‘Arrogant jerk_ ,’ he wanted to snap back, but it had started to make sense. His voice had already changed. It was that of the victor on the world’s stage, and, a declaration seizing him, he pivoted and threw his arm out. Loose cards fell from his duel disk, the Inferno Tempest turning in the air like a flake of the ash it had spread out, like a slender orange-red flame from its impact. The pulse of the stadium belonged to him, to no one _else_ , and he wanted to feel it.

He controlled it now, and he made it spike.

“I won’t allow for anyone to forget that impact of this duel. It stands as a testament to the legacies of its duelists, myself and Edo Phoenix.” He nodded to the side, and maybe he was shouting. Maybe he had no idea what he was saying, but it was too easy to give in, the thrum of the crowd more than just addictive. Electricity ran through his veins, and the pulse quickened, the hammer-beat of his chant climbing. “Of course, I won’t allow for my position as the victor to be discarded so easily. It should be remembered who it was that ended the win-streak of the world’s first.”

Everything was white noise. The Ojamas were a swirl of colour in the corner of his eye, glazed-over and blurred.

He raised his hand, and the first word hit like the crash of a falling wave.

“One!”

The second hit harder, and he went with it. He was taken in by it.

“Ten!”

The lights were in his colour.

“One hundred!”

His next breath caught.

“One thousand!”

Wreathed in pure blue lights, the stadium shuddered with the energy that it carried, every new cheer like a burst of lightning that shot across it, that passed through him and changed some brittle, buried-away part of him. It became strong, like iron. Taken in, he could only close his eyes for the fraction of some spinning second, and he took a shaking breath.

Spread over the writhing stands, the blue lights pushed and pulled like thousands of stars, the shapes multiplying and changing with every short moment, every fraction of a second that slipped by. Time made this is a rare thing, and he was going to savour it. He bared his teeth.

There was one more line.

Throwing his coat out, he strode closer to the surging crowd, and the stare he raked over the crowd was like a signal fire, making the tension stronger. They waited for him, and the pulse of the stadium was under his control, but it could spike again. Every camera was on him.

He stopped.

Winged Kuriboh hooted as it flew over his head, drifting like a balloon with its string cut.

 _“You’d better be watching this,”_ he thought to himself, and as he raised his extended duel disk, his smirk turned at the edges.

\---

The afterparty was on the massive fifth-floor event hall of the attached tower, and each panel of the glass doors was etched with a Blue-Eyes White Dragon. Even more curled around the massive hanging sculpture that pivoted and adjusted itself, the beasts taking flight and then landing repeatedly. Rows of banquet tables converged around the glassy structure, his seat at the place of honour, but the guests rarely took their seats, the strange, surging energy making their conversations rise and spark. Some duels broke out, usually with ridiculous bets attached, and Manjoume watched as Sho, champagne in hand, tried to fend off a burn deck, the vehicroids beeping and honking as their controller giggled. At some point, Sho would _probably_ realize that he was in trouble, his opponent quick to place more face-downs, but, evidently, free champagne had a negative effect on a duelist’s cognitive abilities. Or something.

Elite duelists who he had worshipped as a starry-eyed kid stopped to greet him, some bowing low enough to scatter his thoughts. If an inebriated Marufuji Sho could be trusted, then Jonouchi Katsuya was _somewhere_ in the room, and maybe he had heard whispers of a possible duel breaking out between him and the elder Kaiba, a scenario that had immediately slammed fifteen years off his age and made the Ojamas squeal with fast questions.

“Hey, hey, is this guy cooler than you, Boss?”

“Nah, impossible!”

“Uh… Are we getting overshadowed after our big duel?”

“What’s a Kat-su-ya?”

“Shut it,” he said, which made Ojama Yellow pout and Ojama Red babble even faster.

“So, like, what’s the deal with that special offer? We can take on any duelist, right? So, who’s it gonna be? That Kaiba guy? Or-”

“We’re playing a new game,” Manjoume stated as he walked away from Sho, his stage coat flaring behind him. “Whoever talks next gets banned from my deck for a week.”

Instantly he had five puffy-faced spirits in front of him, Ojama Yellow turning purple as he choked back what _had_ to be something loud and annoying. Manjoume shrugged, and he took a glass of champagne for clicking with other glasses, because he was the fucking victor and deserved to click all the glasses. No questions asked.

He started with Misako’s. Click.

“You do realize that you’re talking to yourself again,” she began, an eyebrow arched.

“ _I_ am the God that reigns over the dueling world,” he countered, and Misako choked on her champagne. “Let the little people say what they want.”

“That’s…egotistical, even for you,” she said, impressed. She drained her champagne and slammed the glass on the nearest table. “The representatives from Kurosagi Holdings want to meet you, and there’s still the…” Frowning, she adjusted her sleek ponytail, long enough that the next turn of her hand risked taking out a waiter. Ojama Yellow had written out a series of demands and was trying to shove them into his eyeballs, a minor annoyance. “Alright, here’s what I’m going to do.”

“…Okay?”

“I,” she began, working a silver ring off her index finger, “am going to drop this and then lose track of you for the rest of the night. Just don’t let the head of our agency corner you.”

“I can recruit a few lookouts,” he answered, even _if_ that would involve the Ojamas talking again. That or he needed to quickly invent a signal-based warning system, one that used only hand gestures and arm movements.

There were few people he would willingly inflict the pain of being an Ojama duelist on.

With a final tug, Misako had loosened the ring, a snake-like coil with a single gem, but he had to say something before it happened. He bowed.

“Thank you for your hard work.”

A cryptic smile, and then she smoothed out her dark dress and bowed at him, blue-black hair sliding over her bare shoulder.

“Thank you for your hard work, Thunder.”

When the sliver fell, she waved him away and bowed her head even lower, and he found himself laughing, one hand curled by his jawline. The Pro League had strange games, each one grafted onto the one game that they all wanted to play at the highest level, with only the best comebacks and the most intense counters.

As he passed a thick group of Kaiba Corp researchers, he clicked his glass in victory. Once, twice. Ten times.

“Your ego is reaching critical levels,” Sho said flatly when he latched onto Manjoume’s arm, the epaulets on his decorated jacket as pointy as thumbtacks. “So, like, we should get my manager talking to _your_ manager so we can have a super-ultra revenge duel of our own. Hey, let's make it your next duel, how about...in a few days? Hmm?”

“And _why_ would someone in my position agree to that?” he asked, even though he did need another chance at Sho's deck, their last duel closer than he would _like_ to admit. Deflated, the Ojamas floated after him, Ojama Black's frown almost impressive. Seeing another group, he pivoted, ready to clink glasses and receive compliments.

This was officially the greatest day of his life, minus the clingy duelist hanging off him and the absence of one Yuki Judai. Apparently, the CEO of Kaiba Corp had something to discuss with him, which raised more questions than it answered, and whatever the subject was had, demonstrably, taken over an hour.

Maybe Manjoume had started a timer on his phone.

Maybe the Kaiba brothers had committed the unforgivable crime of yanking his boyfriend away before the necessary congratulations, worship, and admiration, because, fuck, did he want that. All of that, maybe with less people around and more direct physical contact.

He clicked his glass aggressively enough to raise some eyebrows, but as he was officially a God of the dueling world, he was now beyond all minor criticisms of his conduct. The probability of a bronze statue being commissioned in his honour had greatly increased. As soon as he had stepped off the stage, Misako had reported that he had thirty-six new commercials to shoot and even more media requests, enough that she had interlaced each word with several hurried sentences into her phone.

Judai had been a flash in the crowd as he had moved off the stage, pressing a calloused hand against his as he smiled nice and wide, and _maybe_ it had been hard to keep the emotion off his face, something like tears burning in the corners of his eyes.

“You're going to break it,” Sho stated, and Manjoume, ignoring him, continued to make those sharp clicking sounds. Click. Click. Each one was accompanied by a deep bow. Some featured additional groveling, which he liked for obvious reasons.

But, still.

The Kaiba brothers were close to earning a place on his 'Disliked People’ list, stacked with annoying event organizers, interviewers, and a few vengeful duelists, the types to rig matches and bribe petty officials. Yuki Judai had attended the most exclusive party for duelists in a tattered jacket and ripped jeans that were tight across his thighs, and, earlier that day, he had run a careful hand over Manjoume's wrist, the latex letting the motion continue. Their eyes had met.

Another click of his glass, and then Sho was back at it, the contrast between the brothers strong. Ryo, the idol of Obelisk Blue, did not whine.

“Sooooo…. Have you thought about a rematch…? You know, building off the setup of the last Japan Cup…?”

Although Manjoume both enjoyed and acknowledged his new-found superiority, he knew better than to tell the truth, which was that the adrenaline from the duel had converted itself into an intense, persistent desire to make Yuki Judai moan under him. Or over him.

Either one would work.

“No, I have not,” he lied, and Sho pouted.

“But _what_ could be more important than that?!”

Manjoume opened his mouth and then closed it. Apparently he was running low on sarcastic comments, and he managed to dislodge Sho with some flailing, _dignified_ flailing as he had just toppled the great phoenix from its gilded perch. He drained his glass of champagne.

The celebration only grew, delicate holograms flitting over the blue-white tables and then dipping low like birds riding a current. A shrewd businessman, Seto had incorporated his logo and his iconic monsters into every facet of the space, the turns and coils of the furniture minimal, modern, and serpentine all at once, the sleek white-grey of those iconic scales incorporated throughout the room. It was, in his humble opinion, a foregone conclusion that Kaiba Corp's designers were far superior than those of Industrial Illusions, given that there were significantly less Funny Bunnies involved, and he stood still for a long time, surveying the space that glittered with ever-changing lights. The ceiling was an asymmetrical dome that curved towards the wall-height windows, the corporate towers outside shuttering the red-white lines of traffic, and it shifted as the holograms changed, the shades of blue growing deeper as the night went on.

He had captured the attention of the city outside, extending to that of the world.

He turned and clicked glasses with Edo Phoenix.

“We both know that strategy won't work a second time,” was how Edo began, his expression somewhere between haughty and amused. Plasma stayed in his deck, and the only strange lights clustered around him were from the holograms, set to smoke-like wisps of colour. “Plus, I think it's pretty revealing that you had to dig up a card like Inferno Tempest to even have a chance against me.”

Manjoume snorted. If Edo wanted a reaction, he'd have to try a _lot_ harder than that.

“I'm surprised you're not in a blind panic,” Manjoume retorted, lifting his glass. “Your sponsors must be dropping like flies.”

“How short-sighted. You're really not much of a strategist, Manjoume.”

“I'm good enough to take you down. Show some respect.”

Edo covered a laugh. Badly.

“I suppose you're not famous enough to understand this for yourself yet, but it's surprisingly difficult to maintain an interesting narrative in the top ranks when you've never had a serious rival. If anything, this match has given my sponsors something to work with, not to mention my agency.”

“Congratulations.”

“At least try to sound like you mean it.”

He scoffed, and Edo, looking his age for once, let out a sudden laugh.

Across the room, he saw Misako, cradling two champagne glasses in one hand, turn the head of his own agency in the opposite direction. Some old rivalries had been reignited by the persistent atmosphere, the still-present electricity that traveled fast, and he had already heard more than one shouted request to re-open the stadium’s dueling arena. Together at the far end of the room, he and Edo were under many stares, but the others kept their distance, some whispers rising and falling.

“It's like I've told you a thousand times,” Manjoume mumbled, half to himself. “You're not living up to your name if you win all the time. It's fortunate that you know me.”

“That's...not a bad angle. The whole fallen phoenix thing,” Edo said. “I could dye my hair, call myself the Ashen Phoenix…”

Ojama Yellow was officially too close to his face, given that Manjoume could make out every clumsy stitch that held his red briefs together. “Ooooo…. That's pretty cool, don't you think? Boss?!”

Immediately the other Ojamas began to snicker, and Ojama Yellow, his confusing melting away, went pale.

“Congratulations on your immediate suspension from my deck,” Manjoume muttered, and he batted the little spirit away, the familiar wailing about to reach its crescendo. Edo raised a thin eyebrow.

Manjoume turned to him next.

“What, no commentary?”

“I’m just enjoying the show,” he said, and he took a long drink of his champagne.

Ignoring the 579 unanswered messages from not-Judai people on his phone, Manjoume checked the timer, which was dangerously close to the two-hour mark, and when he glanced up, Mokuba had entered the hall and was making a beeline towards them, something bouncy about his steps.

“Hey, my brother wants to catch up,” was Mokuba's opening line.

“What did he do to Judai?” was Manjoume's immediate question, and Edo covered another laugh. Badly.

“Oh, Judai? He had an errand or something. Haven't seen him for awhile now.”

“He _what_?” Manjoume snapped, and the Ojamas scattered like startled birds, with even more noise and some panicked crying. His own champagne glass went on the nearest table.

After the biggest duel of his career, Yuki Judai – his live-in boyfriend, his multi-year rival, and an endlessly confusing, headache-inducing person – had an _errand_ to run.

He knew that he was scowling, and Mokuba put his hands up.

“Don't shoot the messenger. Also, my brother doesn't like delays, so we should get going. Top floor, left office.”

Even though he was the star attraction of the night, the party continued even as he passed into the hallway, more arguments breaking out between the exclusive guests over cards, combos, and decks, and the click of the dress shoes behind him was from Edo, who, evidently, was terribly bored and had nothing better to do than eavesdrop on exclusive meetings.

Whatever.

The elevator system spanned the outside of the attached tower, capable of moving in sharp diagonals up the curved exterior. The dome of the massive stadium was closed, and Edo looked down at it with the same expression from before, open enough that he seemed his age for once. Maybe even younger than that.

Predictably, the office was wreathed with dragons, their scales etched in the surface of the blue-glazed wall, and Mokuba took the retinal scan at the door, the panel flashing green in an affirmative.

“This might be entertaining,” Edo said, shrugging as Manjoume stared at him, _really_ stared at him. Light spilled through the door.

The desk was a gilded block of dark wood, and the thin, modern chair was pure white. Both were at the far end of the room, massive with tall, straight walls in blue-grey, and the sheer emptiness of it, the lack of anything to distract from the person who had claimed it, was striking, its intimidation unique and perfectly honed, crafted.

The elder Kaiba was a folded shape in pure black, his floor-length coat draped over the chair, and he was still enough to seem inhuman, one long-fingered hand over a transparent keypad as the holoscreens around him ticked with numbers, some covered with dense lines of code. A slim mechanical device was curved below his right eye, the end looped over his ear, and when Mokuba stopped in front of him, Seto snapped it back and the holoscreens went out.

“So, I take it that you've thought about my offer?” Seto began, and the impact of his gaze was hard to comprehend, his features distorted by those of something draconic. The power of it was almost like Yubel's, coiled and ancient, except with an even greater level of control, like a sheathed weapon that would split its next target.

Manjoume had frozen in place.

Leaning back, Seto continued, the drawl of his voice deceptive, and Manjoume should have been insulted by how easy it was for the legendary duelist to disarm him, just a flick of one hand and a few measured words. The respect ran deeper than that.

“My patience is known to run thin, Manjoume,” Seto said, and Mokuba, unphased, pulled out a tablet and started a game, a surge of bright colours in the corner of his eye. “The momentum from this duel has put Kaiba Corp's stocks at a five-year high, easily outpacing those of our competitors.” He snorted. “As if they even deserve that title.”

“Yah, you said it,” was Mokuba's mumbled comment, his thumbs a blur over the screen.

“The dueling world is interested in your next move, and it's advantageous for all of us if I know what it's going to be. Think about it. You’ve graduated from _my_ school, so I hope that you’re sharp enough to understand the situation.”

He looked away, and Edo was still next to him, his front pocket empty. The black cloth had been removed.

“I've made my decision.”

“Huh, that was fast,” Mokuba muttered, and Seto waited for his answer, fingers steepled.

“Although, I have two additional requests,” Manjoume stated, and slowly the shadows over Seto's expression changed, his interest clear. “I want the match to take place exactly one year from now, and I want it here, in your stadium.”

“Oh? And what makes you think I'll agree to that?”

He breathed in, aware that Edo was watching him. “Because the only thing better than a close duel is the rematch. It's the next step into the future, the continuation of a legacy.” He paused. “It's...another chance for me to make it clear what kind of duelist I am, since Edo Phoenix won't let me take another win easily. And, more than that,” he added, hurried, “it's another chance for him to show me what kind of duelist _he_ is. I won't stand for a rival who doesn't move forward on his own, so consider this your next audition, Edo.”

Manjoume waited for the response, the legendary duelist in front of him not reacting. Edo was at his side in the near dark, the scattered lights a pale blue. The city outside the window was a sprawling maze of dark shapes, the contours like those of some jagged piece of armor.

“Interesting decision,” was Seto's verdict, given with measured amusement. “Sounds like it could draw an even bigger crowd. I might have to add a few levels to this arena, not that my engineers couldn't take on the challenge.”

When he rose, Manjoume bowed, an imbedded reflex, and Edo did the same. If Seto noticed or even cared, he didn't show it, snapping the half-visor off his ear and putting on his long coat, the material rippling with a silver sheen.

“You going to join the party?” Mokuba asked, eyebrows raised. As the night had progressed, his ordered suit had become increasingly crumpled, and his older brother made for a stark contrast, all sleek lines, the panels of the white gauntlet veined with a synthetic blue.

Manjoume knew that, like Edo, he was a part of the next generation, and their own legacies couldn't stretch even a tenth as far.

At least, not yet.

They moved into the hall, the doors clicking shut, and Seto glanced over his pointed shoulder, the seams studded with flat metal disks. “We’ll have to cut this short. My representatives will be in touch with both of you, so let's arrange another duel that will captivate the world for a second time. That is, if you're capable of it.”

When Seto strode away, a wall panel slid out to reveal another elevator, and Mokuba tried to match his quick steps, blinking wildly. “Uhh… What about the party?”

“There's an uninvited guest on the premise. I will personally make sure that he finds his way to the door.”

And then Seto was gone, the door snapping shut, but it didn't seem to deter Mokuba at all, who threw an apologetic smile at the two of them.

“That's Seto for you. But, hey, that duel should be really intense, so I'm going to see if I can rig up some security camera footage. You want to tag along?”

Manjoume answered.

“Thank you for the offer, but we should get back downstairs. I'll look forward to the messages from your representatives.”

He shrugged. “Alright, suit yourselves.”

And then he was gone, taking another inset elevator and rambling into his earpiece about the possible duel, Jonouchi’s current deck a mystery to the brothers. The hallway seemed vast, isolated, and the clicks of Edo's dress shoes did not match with his own. He led the way. He took the far corner of the elevator, and Edo said nothing at first, a slight curl of his favorite monster's claw showing through.

“So, is this next duel your way of checking up on me?”

A delicate question, and Edo had looked away for it. A faded bruise marked his forehead, the mottled purple at his hairline. Old scars were collected on his hands, one a white-grey starburst. Sometimes, Edo suppressed a wince when he stood up too quickly, as if, like a phantom opponent throwing a cheap punch, a sudden exhaustion would knock him down.

“If that's what you want to call it.”

The elevator continued down, the all-glass walls tracking each hurried floor. The stadium below closed in, the event hall the rectangle that jutted out above it.

“I owe you one.”

“No, you don't.”

With a practiced motion, Manjoume fixed his lapels, and, when the doors snapped open, Edo did nothing, which disrupted Manjoume's immediate plan of strutting back into the event hall and clicking more glasses, maybe even circling back for thirds later.

“Manjoume, I mean it.”

“Obviously. I'm the kind of person who _should_ be appreciated, but I don't need a favour from you. I'm above such things now.”

Edo frowned. “Are...you always this difficult?”

“‘Difficult’ is the wrong word.”

When he left the elevator, Edo matched his strides, and Manjoume pretended that he couldn't feel the stare digging into the side of his head, although the wave-like flickers of Plasma made that somewhat difficult.

“There...aren't many duelists who would turn down a favour from me.”

“So? Why would I care about that?” He snorted. “Seriously, have you forgotten who you're talking to? There's only one Manjoume Thund-”

“Believe it or not, I've heard enough speeches from 'Manjoume Thunder’ for one day.”

“That's impossible.”

“It's...really not.”

He gave Edo a pointed look, since he _was_ the undeniable master of motivational speeches, self-declared or not, and Edo just sighed and shook his head.

Maybe they were fine.

Or, at least, they were close enough for now.

\---

His fourth round of clicking glasses was met with an acceptable level of groveling, the Ojamas trailing him like a colorful victory banner, minus Ojama Yellow, presently sulking in his coat pocket. Only building, the energy was addictive, easy to lean into, and while Sho babbled about _something_ , too many vehicroids involved for him to care, he tapped out a few choice messages to a certain missing person, the threats increasingly violent.

If Sho hadn't been less than ten centimeters away, his gestures wide enough to put the champagne glasses in serious danger, maybe he would've changed tactics. Maybe he would've seen how many characters he needed to turn Judai on.

Damn it.

“Think fast,” was all the warning he gave before he pivoted and clicked glasses with Edo. Again.

“I'm starting to regret sitting here,” Edo said, deadpan.

“No one asked you to.”

Originally, the head table had twelve occupants, all illustrious and famous duelists ready with compliments for _him_ , which he had accepted with the grace of an emperor. But the crowd had thinned, rumors that the elder Kaiba had drawn his duel disk twice that night spreading, and Manjoume had decided to give the other attendants the time they needed to come up with even better compliments, all of which he deserved tenfold.

However, that decision had left him seated next to his two rivals in the Pro League, who ganged up on him at the slightest provocation. Although he could _obviously_ take either one of them easily, whether the combat was strictly verbal or involved cards, two against one was a more intricate challenge. Edo brought up the subject of his mixed-latex shirt, pointing at the thunder-bolt design on the front with a salmon-vegetable skewer, while Sho tried to force words through his tenth mini-hamburger, the platter almost empty.

Manjoume had stuck with his half-full glass, ideal for clicking and receiving praise. He interrupted Sho’s next comment by raising it and forcing another sharp click, and the Cyber Art duelist let out a heavy sigh.

“After midnight, you are officially banned from doing that. It’s not fair.”

“And what authority do _you_ have?” Manjoume retorted, which resulted in more sighing. Sho’s braid had started to come apart, blue tufts poking up. A metal Cyber-Dragon crest had been added to his dueling jacket, the location over his heart, and the blunt symbolism was effective enough to earn Manjoume’s silent approval.

Vocal approval would have made Sho far, _far_ too smug.

“I think it’s a lost cause,” Edo commented, every rigid angle of his deep red suit perfect. Plasma was a muted presence, just the occasional shift of something intangible in his main deck.

Of all the subjects discussed amongst insiders in the Pro League, ‘dating’ was one of the most sensitive, usually whispers of in vague terms and with knowing looks.

“So, you and my aniki…?”

Given the distance between them and the other partygoers, mostly crowded around the far table and the duel being played on it, it was _probably_ fine, but he still leveled a warning glare at Sho.

“Are you going to add more words to that sentence, or do you really expect me to fill in the blanks _for_ you?”

“Already on the defensive I see,” Sho said, frowning a little. But he still pressed on, his elbows on the table. “Manjoume-kun, I’m just asking. You don’t have to give an answer if you don’t want to.”

“We’re together.”

Sho blinked. “…Woah. Okay.”

“What? You’re _surprised_ by that?”

“Uh… No, not really,” he admitted, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, you two were really close during that dinner with Pegasus and Johan. Like, _really_ close.”

Manjoume said nothing, swirling his rose-gold champagne. The bubbles collected.

Sho continued. “By the way, where exactly is he? I saw him at the stadium earlier, so…?”

Clicking his teeth, Manjoume stopped his sudden rant for a few seconds, but the minutes were _still_ ticking by and, fuck it, he had a serious problem. “The interesting thing is that _I_ of all people have the same question, which is entirely unacceptable. Like, honestly. Did he forget who I _am_? I won’t stand for this treatment in the future.”

“Uh… Manjoume-kun, are you-?”

“ _I_ am not done,” he snapped, flicking his bangs back. “He’s provoking me with an action like this. Maybe in the future, I really will have to put a GPS tracker on him, or maybe even chain him to my-”

“Stop! Stop! Too much information!” Sho yelped, and Edo’s eyebrows shot up. “Like, as roommates, we had this unspoken rule of _not_ talking about our respective kinks, mostly for my own sanity but… I'm just suggesting that we reinstate that rule now and forever, since you're talking about my aniki.”

“...We didn't have a rule like that.”

“UN-SPO-KEN. So, you're good at card games, but apparently you still can't follow a basic conversation. That's not good, Manjoume-kun.

“Shut up…”

Edo interrupted next. “Well, something tells me that you won't have to wait too much longer.”

Shades of blue and white dominated the room, some shadows dragging in cold greys, and the contrast was immediate against Judai's red jacket. Parting the crowd, he approached slower than he should have, some of the guests stopping him with loud greetings that Judai always answered with a wide smile. And Manjoume's stare cut through it all, his grip tightening on his glass as Judai ran a hand over the back of his neck, short hairs passing underneath.

Manjoume stood up, and he adjusted his coat, pulling the thick cuffs into place. “I'll see you two later. Try not to forget what the outcome of today's duel was, since I expect to be treated with more respect in the future.”

Sho was first. “Yeah, whatever. Just try not to kill my aniki, please.”

Edo was second. “Since our win-loss ratio will soon be reversed, try to enjoy it while it lasts.”

But Manjoume had already started towards his target, that low desire rising and digging its claws into his head, his thoughts turning one way. Last night, Judai had let him stay on top, trembling with every pass of his tight hand.

The thin distance between them was still too much. Judai smiled even wider.  

“I can explain.”

Manjoume crossed his arms. “I don't want your excuses, Judai.”

A bright laugh. “Yeah, I get it. Guess I'll be direct then.”

“Try me.”

Yubel stirred, their laugh next. Dulcet tones. Lower than Judai's. “Okay. I want you to follow me. I've prepared something.”

“'Something’ isn't _exactly_ direct.”

“Well, it's supposed to be a surprise…”

An unexpected answer, and Manjoume considered it, scowling a little. “Considering the results of my duel earlier, you would have to do something very impressive to get a reaction out of me. Are you sure you're up to that challenge? I'd understand if you weren't.”

He recognized Judai's slanted expression from their duels, the one given before a perfect counter or a calculated attack.

“Actually, I'm pretty confident about this. Want to give it a try?”

His voice had dropped to a growl. “Let's see what you got, Slifer.” And, bold, his heart pounding, he let his eyes stay on Judai's body, his low collar hiding the length of bronze chain. It showed some skin, and he wanted more than that. He made it obvious.

When he followed Judai to the elevator, he kept his composure up, aware of the eyes that had to be trailing them still, drawn to the jet black of his dueling coat, but he immediately lost it when Judai, a perfect smile in place, hit the button for the top floor, which was _unlikely_ to have a furnished hotel suite on it.

“...Judai?”

“Hmm?”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Judai hummed a little instead of providing a basic explanation, Winged Kuriboh bobbing over his shoulder like an over-inflated balloon. Glaring at the fluffball accomplished nothing, and the same applied to Judai, his thumbs hooked through his belt loops.

“So, what's the plan? Are we hijacking the Blue-Eyes White Jet? I doubt that you have a license.”

“Hmmm… You know, that's not a bad idea. I've always wondered how that thing works.”

“Judai…”

“Just hold on, okay? We’re almost there.”

When the elevator stopped, the doors stayed shut, and a warning message appeared on the front panel, advising ‘authorized personnel’ to use the retinal scanner. Manjoume, reeling from a sudden stab of satisfaction, burst out laughing.

“Ah, how typical. Is _this_ really your idea of a ‘surprise’, getting trapped in a Kaiba Corp elevator? I take it that a negative result will set off this building’s security system, not that _you’ve_ thought that far ahead.”

“Don’t worry,” Judai said, pushing his bangs out of his eyes as he leaned forward. “I’m not planning on failing this test.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”

Judai laughed, and just as a white-blue ring of light locked onto it, his right eye started to change, flickering between human and demon as green-orange mixed with warm brown and acidic yellow, the pupil alternating between split and round. The size changed, slight enough that Manjoume had never noticed it, Judai’s dark eyelashes rising and falling by narrow millimeters, and the warning panel was stuck on ‘SCANNING’, a blue visualization of Judai’s changing eye below the text. The blood vessels were moving, the delicate, forked branches jerking up and down until they set in place, Judai’s iris a cracked iridescent disk, the strongest veins of colour in solid yellow. The pupil was a clover-shape, trapped between forms.

The panel went green, ‘CONFIRMED’.

Outside was the dark of the night sky, and the cold, rushing in with the strong wind, pierced his coat as he stormed after Judai, his hands in his pockets and his head tilted back. A smirk crossed Judai’s handsome face, infuriating as he glanced back at Manjoume and raised an eyebrow. “See? Told you that I’d pass.”

“How the…? What did you just…?!”

Judai shrugged. His eyes were the same again, entirely human and clear against the near-black sky. Blue floodlights slid over the hard ground. “Mokuba could swap out the retinal scanners if he really wanted to keep me out. Oh, that reminds me.” Rocking back on his heels, Judai took a careful look at the structures on the platform, and then he waved at a sleek security camera, his smirk even wider than before. “To tell you the truth, I think he likes the challenge of trying to fix up that program. Hasn’t worked so far, but who knows.”

Manjoume snorted. “Yeah, because messing with either one of the Kaiba brothers is a _good_ idea.”

“Point taken, but,” Judai added with a wink, “you still followed me up here, didn’t you?”

Damn it.

Because it was made for looks, not practical things like standing on the twentieth-floor rooftop of the latest Kaiba Corp tower in the middle of the night, his stage coat could not be closed, and he used his crossed arms to keep the panels close to his chest as the wind tried to pull them away. It rushed through the empty spaces between the custom jets and helicopters, and the passing pinpricks of light overheard flared red and white, other planes passing high in the night.

Judai walked closer to the edge, a sheer drop behind the waist-high fence, and the pieces were on the board, their final order still unclear. Judai controlled the pace, capable of flipping them to the right direction if he wanted to. His red jacket crinkled with the wind.

“Starting from here shouldn’t be a problem, since Mokuba knows about it already,” he began, and Manjoume stopped less than a meter away, curious enough to hold his tongue as the noise of the wind rose, something about the way Judai stood drawing him in. High shoulders. A solid stance, like he already understood the turns of the world below, the pieces on the board a series of pre-determined combinations. “Yubel has a second sense when it comes to cameras, cellphones, stuff like that, but, I mean, I'd understand if it's too risky for someone like you. In my defense, the view's definitely worth it.”

One piece that he recognized was the parallel tears that marked all of Judai’s jackets and some of his shirts, the marks above the raised scars underneath.

He waited for it, his next breath shallow.

The first signal was the sudden tension in those shoulders, and the second was its slow, controlled release, and the wingtips unfurled first, tapered lines of jet black that stretched thick, purple membranes behind them. Segmented, the wings were those of Yubel, bat-like with dark scales over the thin bones that structured them and sharp points of white-yellow, shaped like incisors. Complete, they touched the concrete before spreading out, and, alone, Yubel would have carried out the simple action differently, adding an extra flare by pushing tension into the controlling muscles.

Judai dropped the wings again, and when he turned around, their outlines seemed to meld with the dark ridges of the city, but Manjoume knew they were still there, the implication an obvious one. A pointed wing hid the railing’s edge, and he already had his answer, even if Judai held the question back for a moment.

“So, it’s up to you,” Judai finally said, his smile shy at the corners, and Manjoume had already nodded.

He stepped forward, his heart pounding even if he kept his voice even, controlled. It was on the verge of breaking.

“Show me what it looks like,” he stated, and the wind pulled again. It ran through Judai’s bangs. “I made myself clear when I confessed to you, Judai. I want everything that you can offer me, and I won't take anything less than that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Although, he still complained every step of the way (“You can't be serious.” “Well, I'd like to avoid dropping you, so…”), mainly because Judai _insisted_ on carrying him bridal style (“If any photos of this get out, you wouldn't survive the aftermath. I'll make sure of it.” “Yeah, because _how_ I'm carrying you would be the issue.”). His legs were hooked over one arm, another spread across his shoulders, and his own arms, in a _beyond_ embarrassing position that did not fit his chosen image, went around Judai's neck. Even with the wind rushing in fast, Judai was still warm, a solid presence that he leaned into more than he should have, revealing millimeter by millimeter who _really_ had the upper hand.

Maybe he didn't fucking care anymore.

He tightened his grip as Judai approached the railing, every step measured, even. The strength Judai used to hold him came from Yubel, the thrum of their active power tangible as it shifted through the cold air. The city below bowled out. Everything past the coastline was under a black void.

Judai's voice was by his ear, a low sound under the rising wind. “You ready?”

He breathed in, and even from here, he could see the vertical drop, the side of the building a massive grey-blue plane that jutted down to the hard street. Two low-level dragon spirits circled below, phasing through the side of the building and then passing over the traffic lights, and Manjoume could feel it when Judai brought him closer, his wings rasping as they unfolded.

“Judai, you're still holding back.”

“Ah, you mean my sight, don't you?”

“Isn't Domino City the capital of duel monsters?” he muttered, the stiff fabric of Judai’s collar under his palms. “If your goal is to impress me, then some half measure won't do it.”

Judai considered it. He ran a thumb over the back of Manjoume's neck, just over the high line of his studded collar.

“Tell me if it's too much.”

“It won't be.”

“Manjoume…”

He snorted. “Fine. I promise to say something if your weird-monster-sight-thing gets too annoying for me. In return, _you_ have to promise not to drop me.”

“I'll try not to.”

And then it started. Judai bent at the knees, his shoulders knotted with tension, and the two wings raised, their sharp angles puncturing the smooth sky as a flashing red light drifted by. A sudden shift, Judai pushing down, and they were far, _far_ higher than before, the platform a grey square, the city streets a grid that spread and spread as the meters pushed between them. The wings kept them suspended at that height.

The main Kaiba Corp tower rose as a pale wall, jutting up from the lesser corporate towers that tried to compete with it and crowded the skyline that was thick with faded spirits. Serpents drifted over the famed city, their red forms intertwined, and the cold bit at his face, strongest on the tips of his ears, but eventually they went numb.

Below, the spirits continued to churn.

They ran over the stadium and then spiraled down through it, the innumerable wings overlapping, beating and moving like loose petals caught in the wind. It was unclear where the city ended and they began, their next movements erratic, and the competing visual noise made him breath in harder, searching for a pattern amongst the chaos that just continued and continued. Competing textures meshed together and then broke apart.

“It's...the strongest in the dueling districts,” he muttered, and Judai _somehow_ heard him, his nod sharp. “These movements, they don't make sense. They're not like those of my own spirits or the ones I can see myself.”

Judai let them drift, and his arms were solid and unmoving as the world below changed its shape.

Judai had to shout over the roar of the wind. “I’ve noticed the same thing. Those places might be where the dimensional barrier is at its thinnest, maybe because there's so many duelists around.”

A valid theory, and Manjoume had closed his eyes for a moment, but the draw was too strong. He wanted this.

He wanted everything.

Slowly, Judai moved towards the heart of the dueling district, a spectacle of light and colour even without the added spirits. With them, it was ethereal, the rows of booths and dueling arenas below drawing them in like a strong current. He tilted his head back, tracking the fluid turn of an unknown dragon with seven heads, each crested with different feathers. A griffin passed through it, the talons curled in as it dived in a dizzying maneuver, pulling up lower and then bolting out of sight, melding with the encroaching night.

From the center of the market, an old radio tower rose, the scaffolding stark blue and marked with patches of red-brown rust. The coating had peeled off on the higher stories, and Judai took them to the very top, inaccessible to any living thing that couldn't climb like they did. Below was a plaza. In the distance, the stadium showed as a greying disc.

And maybe he knew that all of this was foolish, the chance of some idiot with a camera catching them higher than it should be. Maybe the adrenaline had twisted his thoughts more than it should have, and maybe he would do anything but stop it now. Any old restraints that he had were gone. The thrum of the stadium had followed him here, embedded in the moment.

Judai's profile was orange in the dim light, and he leaned away from the central structure, the narrow platform without railings. Manjoume did not look away. His right hand had tangled in the wire-covered column behind him, the cold of it barely registering.

He released it slowly, and he stopped next to Judai, the view impossible to comprehend. The spirits soared and soared, their textures colliding.

“I take it this is your idea of a romantic night out?”

Laughing, Judai glanced back. “This is just step one.”

“If you're trying to seduce me, picking somewhere warmer and with actual walls would help."

“You shouldn't underestimate me,” Judai replied with a taunting smirk, and then he moved back. His wings followed, their tension released.

On the ground-level, the radio tower had five supports, four spread out like the corners of a square with the fifth in the center. The four metal beams moved in until they connected with the fifth, that point already far off the ground, the closed-off viewing platforms below it. From there, the fifth continued as a vertical column, and it still rose overhead, culminating in a red light with a broken case and maze of derelict cables, some marked with faded symbols. Their platform, probably for maintenance or construction, was an octagon that surrounded the main support, the flooring a metal grid.

“It doesn't look this old from the ground,” Manjoume said, daring one more step before the pull of the wind stopped him. Sure, Judai could fly, but an aerial rescue wasn't _exactly_ something he wanted to experience. “They put this thing on postcards for the city. I've done commercials with the tower in the background.”

“Sounds like I've given you a different perspective,” Judai replied, and Manjoume watched as he sat down on the edge of the platform, his feet over it. Judai now had a plastic bag, the material creased by the wind, and he took two cans of iced tea out of it first. He held one out.

An invitation, and Manjoume took it and sat down next to Judai, his custom-ordered, all-black shoes suddenly over the plaza below, a fractured mesh of human beings and lingering spirits.

“Nothing _should_ fly away,” Judai said, leaning back on his palms after he balanced his can on the metal grid. “But, if something does, don't quote me on that.”

“No deal,” Manjoume stated. He held onto his, and then Judai fished out more convenience-store items from the bag, the filled dorayaki next.

“This is step two. Nothing special, but you didn't eat anything this morning. Or afternoon.” Judai paused, taking a bite. He chewed slowly. “I can't let that happen on my watch.”

“Technically, you already did,” was Manjoume's retort, and it made Judai chuckle, his eyes on the crowd below.

Videoscreens covered the buildings at the end of the plaza, and each one gave the highlights of the earlier duel, Inferno Tempest exploding again and again in a rain of fire and ash. Another popular clip was of him yanking Edo back to his feet, Edo's head lowered and tilting back with the sudden motion. Another was of them together at the end of the duel, Edo smirking as he strode towards the end of the stage, every word he said stoking the fires of the audience higher.

Judai had shoved his press pass in his outer pocket. Manjoume stared at it.

“Tell me what the stadium looked like today.”

“Maybe I will if you eat something…”

Jerk. But Manjoume took the hint, grabbing _something_ and unwrapping it without looking. “Done. Get talking.”

Judai's pause was unexpected, leaving only the howl of the wind and the rustle of their coats, the embossed metal on his clacking against the platform. “If your theory is correct,” he added, chewing fast, “then a place like that should’ve been full of these other spirits, since so many duelists were in the audience.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“...You 'guess’?”

Dragging across the metal platform, Judai's wings curled over his back, the long tips close enough to brush Manjoume's left hand, braced behind him, the fingers bent through the narrow spaces in the grid. The feeling was like rough leather.

Judai’s eyes were on the scene below, more people pouring into the market as the night continued on.

“I don't know how many there were. I turned all of this off when I found my seat.” He paused again. He ran a hand up the back of his neck and over the crown of his head, parting the short hairs. “I just wanted to watch the duel, that's all. To tell you the truth, I didn't realize that I'd turned it off until now. I...didn't notice the change.”

Manjoume frowned. “You didn't _notice_ that fifty-meter-long serpents weren't climbing all over the seats? How much of an airhead are you?”

That made Judai laugh, and he smiled again. A red-orange light ran over his face.

“Let's just say that I was too busy watching this duelist that I like.”

Manjoume steadied himself, his chest tight.

“That's...how it should be,” he said, and when he continued, it was with a stronger voice. “Judai, I gave everything that I had out there.”

“I know. I saw it."

The answer had been immediate, unthinking, and if he hadn't already bound himself to Yuki Judai, _that_ would've been the moment, elusive spirits streaking past as familiar eyes locked with his own, open and honest. None of the chaos could matter now. It was intangible.

He pressed closer.

“I want one more thing from you tonight.”

“Now I'm curious,” Judai stated, laughing a little. “What did the great Manjoume Thunder have in mind?”

“I want you to show me how much you enjoyed it, watching me duel. I…” He tried again. Flakes of orange-yellow parted in Judai's narrowed eyes. “I deserve to know if I’ve made you fall for me even more.”

He meant every word.

And Judai toyed with him in return, his smirking revealing everything. The angle was too high.

“Apparently this duelist that I like is pretty famous now, but,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder, “I still think I can take him on. I was hoping to get a second chance at him tonight, if I played my cards right.”

“You have a chance. I'm waiting for you to take it.”

Judai kissed him, pushing his mouth open and bringing their tongues together, and the hot, slick motion went straight through him. When he gasped, Judai surged closer, and the next pass of Judai's tongue forced his mouth wider. He let it happen, his heart hammering harder and harder as Judai took control and then used it, kept it from him. The angle changed.

His hand had clawed in the metal. Judai tasted sweet.

Every pass of Judai's mouth made it even deeper, his head tilted far back as Judai worked against him, and Judai made those low, ragged sounds that Manjoume knew could be much louder than that, could be even hotter than that. Their mouths slid together, and he let Judai in again, the wind tearing at them both, the cold piercing.

Breaking away, he put a hand on Judai's chest, fingers catching in the bronze chain. And, sure, he'd meant to ask Judai what _that_ was about hundreds of times, maybe even thousands, but this was _definitely_ not the time.

“We’re going to the hotel.”

Judai, who was a fucking _bastard_ , considered it, humming a little. “Hey, hold on. I'm the one who set this up, so let's not skip step three.”

“Unless it involves you, me, and a hotel room, I'm not interested.”

Judai, who was now dangerously close to being thrown off a building, ignored him.

“It took me awhile to find these,” Judai began, digging inside his jacket, “and, yes, I even filled out the card.”

Taking a flight across the city had crumpled the plastic wrapping, and while some stray petals stayed inside Judai's jacket, one was taken in by the wind and soared past them. Seven teal roses, each marked with artificial glitter. The creased wrapping had white stars.

Manjoume took them carefully, one hand curled over the top, shielding the flowers from the persistent wind. With flakes of blue-silver, the glitter had already marked his hand.

The card was extremely simple.

“Really? ‘ _Nice dueling’_?”

“W-Well, I was going to add my name, but the card was too small for that.”

“Maybe if you didn't write like a…” Manjoume cut his loses, and he took the flowers into his own coat, using an elbow to keep them by his side. “Whatever. Let's get going.”

“You asked me to fill it out, so I filled it out,” Judai drawled as he stood up, and the wings flared out, wide as they caught the wind. Somehow, this was his reality, and Manjoume took the hand Judai offered him, aware that scales ran over the callouses when Judai lost his concentration, the line between human and inhuman malleable, thin.

Whatever, he thought. All of this was Judai, and there was nothing he couldn't take in.

\---

Although, getting to the hotel turned into a massive and extremely annoying ordeal, the downsides of fame making themselves apparent and leading to a few not-arguments along the way. Judai, somehow both an expert duelist and an absolute moron, _actually_ proposed landing on the roof of the hotel, sneaking through the occupied penthouse on the top floor, and then making a break for the elevator, a plan with so many holes in it that Manjoume, stupefied, had needed a minute to categorize them.

The solution, as he painstakingly explained, involved returning to the original tower, taking a corporate car back to the hotel, ensuring that he was photographed by the entrance to avoid a scandal the next morning, and _then_ going back to his room.

“I still think we could pull off my plan, but…” Shrugging, Judai lifted him higher, the wings growing taut enough to catch the wind. “You were the victor today. Doesn't that mean I have to do what you say?”

“Stop giving me ideas.”

Judai grinned, and then they were off the platform, spiraling up the main structure and then over it.

The city became small.

Even without its star duelist, the party had sustained itself just fine, and they passed through a hall that still buzzed with its earlier energy, many quick to welcome Manjoume as dueling royalty. He let Judai see that, aware of the tense seconds that ticked by, Judai's hand quick to brush against his like something accidental.

It was the same in the car, in the way he leaned closer to whisper in Judai's ear. Every reaction meant something.

Photographers were at the street-level entrance, but his agency had already sent the necessary security. He strode away from the car with a practiced smirk, and, unseen, Judai's flowers stayed pressed against his ribcage, a subtle pressure. Flashbulbs went off. He walked with purpose, as any victor should. Judai met him inside, taking a side-entrance.

When he closed the hotel room door, Judai pushed him against it, their hips connecting and dragging together. But the clothes got in the way, Judai's thick belt catching on his buckle. His shirt was too fucking tight, resisting the fast rise and fall of his chest as Judai ground into him, the friction perfect.

It was perfect.

Judai's breath was hot on his neck.

“You’re not leading this time, Manjoume.” The next roll of Judai's hips made that clear, but he still smirked into their next kiss, every angle of it taunting. The sweet taste hadn't changed, and he took it in, letting their hips connect again and again.

“Ah, Judai. Is that any way to address a champion like myself?” he drawled, and the immediate reaction took his next breath, the kiss searing, even deeper than before.

When they broke apart, Manjoume shoved Judai's worn jacket off, and the flowers inside his own had fallen to the floor, unseen. The hands on his shoulders moved down to his wrists, and, without words, he let Judai direct then up, over his head.

He quickly learned something new about Yuki Judai.

“Huh. So you're a pervert.”

“I wouldn't use that word for it,” Judai said, grinning. Twisting out of the hold would have been simple, but Manjoume waited, and the pressure lifted slightly as Judai moved one hand down, setting it on his chest. The fingers spread. “I'm just a curious guy, that's all.”

“What are you curious about?”

Judai's eyes focused, and his free hand stopped at Manjoume's belt. “How far you'll let me take this.”

“You'll take this as far as I want you to,” he answered, jerking his chin up, and when he leaned into their next kiss, Judai's hand guided his hips back. This was another game, an extension of the one they had already been playing that night.

How interesting.

“This is a new look for you,” Judai mumbled against his mouth, and shards of yellow were in his eyes, the embedded gold stronger than before. It flickered as Judai's thigh went between his own, the action spreading his. “It suited you, on the stage today. I could hear the crowd's reaction.”

“So? Were you jealous?”

A wide smile, and then Judai moved closer, his thigh high enough that Manjoume had to grit his teeth. The eye contact burned.

He wanted it to last longer.

Slowly, he rolled his chest down and brought his hips up, and everything was visible to Judai, the focus in his eyes sharpening even more. The pressure tightened. Spread fingers ran over the sharp indent of his ribcage, every hurried breath felt, taken in.

“Manjoume, you're seriously…” Judai inhaled quickly, his eyes moving down. His grip changed. “The champion, right here with me. You're still wearing that outfit, like you were just on stage.”

“Is…” Carefully, Manjoume steadied himself, Judai's hard thigh between his legs. And even though it pulled at his control, he kept the eye contact, craving it above everything else. “Is that a problem for you, Judai?”

A dark laugh, and then Judai pulled away from their next kiss, his low words over Manjoume's open mouth. “No, not at all. I want to see you come like this.”

Manjoume made his move, his answer a rough growl. “Then make me.”

The angle was all wrong, their teeth colliding hard enough for Judai to hiss, but he didn't fucking care, and Judai had his belt open in seconds, going for his zipper next. Another kiss, one he moaned into, aware that those sounds made Judai even harder, his next breaths rougher than before.

Good.

When Judai grabbed his cock, he shuddered and gave in, letting that hand over his wrists support him. His bangs had fallen over his eyes, and Judai watched everything as he tightened his grip, just _that_ already enough to break him down. Judai started slow, rising up from the base and dragging his palm along the shaft.

“Y-You've…” Shuddering, Manjoume tried again, already caught in the slow, aching rhythm that his rival maintained, each stroke not enough. “D-Don't make me insult you, Judai. I'll really- Ah!”

A hand clawed over his covered wrists, and Judai lengthened his strokes, tight enough that Manjoume jerked his hips up into them, each downward roll dragging those pathetic, eager sounds out of him as Judai's body caged his own. Another kiss. Another pass of that hand.

“Manjoume.”

Immediately he snapped his hands free and tore at Judai's shirt, clenching his fingers against Judai's back, grasping the knotted ridges where the wings used to be, and rocking with the steady motion of his hips, guided by Judai's warm hand. He couldn't take it. He leaned into the next kiss, but it stayed shallow.

Another low stroke, and then he grabbed at Judai's arm, forcing it still. They kissed again as he came, all composure destroyed, everything visible on his face, in the way his body arched and shuddered. Frantic, hectic.

Judai's eyes stayed on no one else, and he was bound to that, driven to make that focus even stronger. Scattered petals marked the floor. A trail of glitter stayed on the black latex over his arms.

Maybe there was some connection between the Supreme King and Judai's ability to suddenly keep his voice even, as if he hadn't been making those raw sounds just seconds ago. Or maybe Yubel was the source. The answer was probably complicated.

“Manjoume, are you alright?”

“Obviously,” he rasped, leaning back against the door. Judai's strength showed through every line of his body. It showed in the careful, measured way that he raised his bare hand to push Manjoume's bangs back, and that simple action went straight through his chest.

“Judai, if you still want something from me, you're going to have to ask first.”

Those fingers threaded through his stiff bangs, and Judai's other hand, slick, stayed above his hip, the pressure barely enough to be felt.

“It's a selfish request.”

“Then be selfish.”

He meant it, and Judai glanced down, the focus clear. He looked like a total mess, his tight shirt pushed up and his belt off, everything open. Cum had dripped over his thighs, stark on the matte black.

Judai's fingers moved over his ear, then his jawline. A calloused thumb dragged over his bottom lip, and he couldn't stop himself from shuddering, hard enough that Judai had to notice.

Just fucking ask me, he thought. He almost yelled it.

Judai's stare cut through the dark.

“You’re so perfect like this. Let me show you. Let me come on you.”

Their eyes were locked, Judai's ringed with gold.

“Then hurry up. I'm not going to stand here all night.”

And then Judai's shirt was off. His belt was next, and Manjoume sighed when that hand returned to his hair, the palm keeping his thick bangs back.

“Manjoume…”

“What?”

Another kiss, soft. Gentle fingers parted his hair.

Judai was in shades of gold and red. His jeans were down, and the tip of his hard cock was tight against Manjoume's hip and spreading pre-cum over his bare skin.

The spaces between them were thin, Judai's chest rising against his own. Another kiss, and it turned urgent as Judai stroked himself, Manjoume watching with wide eyes. Every pump of that long cock was fucking obscene, the body over his aching with tension, like a wire that was slowly pulled tighter and tighter, vibrating from the stress of it.

He didn't need to say anything, but his heart was still pounding. He let his gaze trail up.

Something like this could've moved even further. Every choked gasp turned his thoughts.

“Judai, you've…” The next stroke had Judai even closer, a solid heat over him. “You've...thought about fucking me, haven't you?”

Judai groaned, loud. The pace increased. “Y-You’re seriously…”

“I'm taking that as a ‘yes’,” he muttered, and Judai's next breath was against the hollow of his neck. Good. Perfect.

“Manjoume…”

“Tell me.”

“You already know the answer,” he rasped, and his right hand moved down to Manjoume's jawline. One finger ran over his mouth.

He let it in, just until the nail ended, and Judai inhaled through clenched teeth. His hips jerked forward, and Manjoume opened his mouth, his tongue running along the underside of that finger. He took more in, and it hooked over his teeth, slick inside his mouth.

“M-Manjoume, I'm-”

He sucked on it, and Judai's eyes flared with yellow-gold, the colour splitting as his hips bucked harder. He came, and it spread on Manjoume's rising chest and then ran down, marking his own spent cock. Judai removed his finger slowly, his thumb pressing into Manjoume’s lip.

In the blue-grey dark, the room seemed perfectly still, like time had suspended itself. Or like it had made some expectation for the champion and the one he had fallen for. The bed was in the next room, and the table was even closer than that. Still, they hadn’t made it far at all. Loose hair parted under his palm.

“That was…”

“Yeah, I know,” Manjoume mumbled, shifting from the weight against him, Judai's forehead on his shoulder. He dropped his jacket. His deck holster went next. That shit could be dealt with tomorrow.

“Hey, I'm tired.”

“Same.” Judai raised his head slowly, something rare about his smile. It would be perfect on some sunlight beach, the waves surging behind them both, the sharp smell of salt in the air. “You know, I think we should share a hotel room more often. Getting two is also expensive.”

“You don't have to convince me, idiot.”

No, it would work better against a city at night, like with the painted-over scaffolding of that radio tower over them both and casting grey blocks of shadow. Judai could keep his wings out in a place like that, and Manjoume ran his hands up the scars they left behind, crossing the highest points of Judai's shoulder blades. Perfectly even. Rough to the touch.

It must have hurt the first time. Maybe it still did, and he kept holding Judai like that, the brittle words in his throat making up another confession.

It had to be love. He wouldn't accept anything else.

\---


	20. Advance Draw

\---

The morning after his career-defining victory, the world's most in-demand duelist picked his phone off the floor of his hotel room, checked that his manager had given him the next four hours off, and then went back to sleep, the snores of one Yuki Judai not enough to stop him from passing out instantly.

Those next hours were like seconds, and then he was blinking the sun out of his eyes, the blinds cracked enough to make pale grid-shapes on the sheets, the lines tilting where they went over Judai, fast asleep with his arms spread out. The phantom gauntlet that parted the air was from Yubel.

A quiet had set in, and Manjoume sat up, his arms over his knees. For once, he wasn't immediately greeted by the Ojamas popping into existence with confetti and ugly expressions. Maybe the duel yesterday had exhausted them, the demanding end of an already grueling schedule.

He wouldn't do it again, not to this degree.

His life was tied to theirs.

And that's when last night hit him, _really_ hit him, and Manjoume sighed into his hand. It should have been embarrassing, _beyond_ embarrassing, to have let Judai use him like that, even to the point of messing up his stage clothes -- now soaking in the sink, a quick solution he had thought of to shut Judai up.

Apparently Judai liked the thought of wrecking his clothes more than _actually_ wrecking them, but the concern was charming, verging on cute.

“Damn it. At least play fair,” he mumbled to himself, and Judai stayed as he was, his chest rising and falling in even, circular motions. “Also, the least you can do is greet me if you're here, Yubel.”

A slight ripple, and then the gauntlet lifted from the back of Judai's neck, the rest of Yubel's scaled form following, topped with a shock of white-purple hair and bat-like wings.

“Congratulations on your latest victory, my dear. Tell me, did that last turn exceed your expectations?”

“I don't need to answer that,” he said, raising an eyebrow when Yubel, floating cross-legged in front of him, turned solid. Their full lips were parted, the start of an arrogant grin.

“Ah, you're right. Your expression at the moment revealed everything, perhaps even more than you realized.”

“...Don't you have anything better than do?”

Yubel snickered. “Let's not forget who initiated this conversation. Sorry, you'll have to deal with the consequences now.”

“Such as talking to _you_?”

That earned him a cheery wink, Judai-like. “Correct answer. Perhaps you'll make for a decent pupil.”

Manjoume snorted.

Despite the fact that he had let Yubel freeload around his apartment, lounging on his furniture and eating all of his snacks at absurd hours of the morning, they weren't _exactly_ frequent conversation partners, Yubel's commentary usually an underlying part of his discussions with Judai, mostly as flickers of protective shadows or curls of dark laughter.

They were Judai's wings, his loyal knight.

Vampiric fangs showed with every smooth word, and Yubel's shadows kept back the morning light.

“I don't mean to be cruel, Manjoume, so please keep that in mind. I have nothing to gain from empty flattery or needless confrontations.”

“What's with the disclaimer? Just spit it out.”

Yubel did not pause, their expression unchanging. “You would destroy yourself for his sake. You may deny it, at least to me, but we both know it's the truth,” they said, wreathed in shadow, and Judai stayed asleep, his breaths even. “This trait is one that we share, and it is indeed powerful. When controlled properly, it can act as both a sword and a shield.”

Manjoume did not back down. He ignored the shiver tracing his spine. “Do you actually expect for me to follow your riddles, Yubel? Stop wasting my time.”

“I'm not,” they answered, unmoving. “Here is my concern. You overestimate yourself. Your strength, your perseverance. It’s admirable to take on pain for another's sake, even if the reasons may be rash or foolish. However, in such a situation, you might deny the very existence of that pain, which is more than just dangerous.”

“I understand.

Yubel tilted their head, bird-like. “Do you really?”

“I understand that your assessment of me is misguided.”

They held his stare.

“Just be cautious, my dear. The future may still surprise you, and every situation should be assessed accordingly.”

“I am.”

When the even cycle of Judai's breathing changed, Yubel reacted instantly, their clawed hand on the crown of his head, and they smoothed back the longer pieces of his bangs until the cycle started again, the harsh angles of their face gone.

“Like I've already said, please know my intentions are good. Think of me as your advisor, a royal advisor preferably. I certainly have more than enough experience in that role.”

Manjoume snorted. “Right, your past life or whatever. Forgive me if I'm not up to date on ancient history.”

“It's an interesting subject,” Yubel said as they rounded the freckles on Judai's neck, pointed claws over bare skin. “Our empire stretched from the barren coasts of the north to the fertile river beds of the south, thousands of trade routes moving between the central kingdoms. Those who stood against us were dealt with, our precision renowned for generations.” They chuckled as they flattened the raised links of that chain, tangled by sleep. “Of course, time does its best to erode the contours of the past. Even a legacy like ours has suffered from the faults of human memory.”

“It's probably for the best,” Manjoume mumbled, and Yubel raised their head, curious. “Do you have _any_ idea how annoying Judai would be if he was the reincarnated king of some famous empire? I'd never hear the end of it.”

Another chuckle. “Ah, my dear… You're too harsh.”

“If anything, I'm too forgiving.”

They should have had coffee and tea for a conversation like this, and Manjoume considered just how much chaos would erupt if he sent Judai's two-meter-tall demonic soulmate with a striking case of heterochromia to pick up room service. No, it was too much chaos, the kind that led to unflattering media reports. Therefore, he would _unfortunately_ have to get out of bed, and Manjoume heaved a deep sigh, a headache already pressing into his forehead.

Coffee first, Yubel later.

But, then again, he _did_ have a perfectly capable person lying to next to him. Manjoume leveled a finger at the small of Judai's back. The first poke did nothing. Same with the second.

Damn it.

“Judai.”

Nothing.

“Hey, idiot.”

Zero effect.

He changed strategies, going for Judai's ribs, but it ended in the same result.

“Is...he _always_ like this?”

Wrong question, as a fiendish grin spread over Yubel's face, an intensity pining him in place. The peaked wings rose. “No, not at all. You certainly have a, ah, _talent_ for exhausting my darling Judai.”

“S-Shut up!” he snapped, and he did _not_ let Yubel get away with that, their amusement obvious. “D-Don't talk to _me_ so informally! You're the weird...spirit...voyeur in this scenario, so know your place.” But, fuck it, his face was burning. “Judai, you idiot. Wake up. Your other self is being a major pain in the ass.”

Evidently, Yubel took that as a compliment, their wings rustling, and Manjoume flinched when they suddenly leaned down and let their palms hit the sheets, their knees dragging across them next. Languid, Yubel rolled back, their weight on their heels, and the inhuman gaze that passed over him was more familiar through Judai's eyes, the green and orange split by softer colours. Without them, the effect was dizzying, hypnotic.

And then Judai's arm was flat against his, a bright smile on his face, brighter than normal in the morning light.

“Hey, Yubel,” he began, “you're not flirting with my Jun-chan, are you?”

A deep laugh. “Ah, maybe a little. It's boring when you're not awake, my darling.”

Manjoume blinked fast.

What the _fuck_ was happening?

With a low chuckle, Judai shifted away from him, and the merge happened in seconds, Yubel's shadows dropping like thin leaves taken in by a sudden wind, their colours surging up and breaking as they passed through Judai. His smile changed, angling higher.

If there was a line between them, then he couldn't see it, the fusion perfect.

Last night, Judai had washed his hair again, the scene shuttered by the minutes he lost to sleep, blinking against Judai’s warm chest, the water a soothing pressure on his back. Hours could have passed by like that, just steam, a muggy, summer-like heat, and an unsteady silence, the water falling again and again. It had been unlike the roar of the stadium, its electricity decreased until it could barely be felt, some lingering prickles of it under his skin as Judai had pushed back his wet bangs, the world distorted by that constant warmth. It had been unlike the rush of the ice-cold wind, the city below them a sprawl of dark colours pierced by gem-like glints of light, the structures intersected by lingering spirits in gold, silver, and red.

Those memories collided now, their differences stark.

“Judai, yesterday was…”

But he still hesitated, the sheets rasping as his hands curled in. Folded over Judai’s legs and waist, the sheets pulled in creased shadows.

“Yeah, I know,” Judai said, and he bumped their arms together again, that smile in place. It changed his voice. “That duel, it felt like the start of a new chapter. It…connected all of us in some new way.”

Manjoume nodded, and he dared to lean into the contact, his heart pounding high and fast. It was unacceptable, fucking _ridiculous_ , that he could be nervous now, but they were really waking up together, slow enough that he could understand every aspect of it. The freckles on Judai’s neck. The low roll of his shoulders.

The shape of his mouth.

No, it wouldn’t be their first kiss, not _even_ close. He had given that away after a card game, which, despite his unnecessary loss, did make sense, considering the intersecting lines of their pasts. But, _still_ , just the thought of it took his stomach and twisted it, that nervous thing taking his hands and directing them in stupid, hesitant circles.

He tried again, flinching when Judai gave him one of those long, searching looks, his eyebrows creased in the middle. Their angle changed when his hand found Judai’s jawline, moving back to his neck, and every centimeter made Judai lean down, their mouths close to connecting. He shook, and Judai had to feel it.

A different kind of kiss, slow enough that he couldn’t think. Thin bangs parted on his forehead. His free hand clenched in the sheets, and that brittle moment had to end, Judai’s chapped lips parting slightly.

“There's...no point in using a special greeting for someone like you,” Manjoume mumbled, glancing away. “A morning call would be stupid, since we're in the same building. So, I…”

“A morning kiss is better than a morning call,” Judai said, and he sounded more than just smug, an infuriating trait for a rival that, of _course_ , was even worse for a boyfriend.

“Y-You stupid…”

“Ah, I guess this is our first morning together…”

“Exactly _how_ bad is your memory?” Manjoume snapped back, and Judai blinked at the finger shoved at his face. “This is our _second_ morning together, in case you’ve forgotten about yesterday. You know, the day that I defeated Edo Phoenix in front of hundreds of millions of Duel Monsters fans worldwide.”

“That morning doesn't count,” Judai countered, his smile challenging. “You had to work early, so the scene wasn't right at all.”

“Since when were _you_ the sentimental one?”

“Ah, w-well…” Judai ran a hand over the back of his neck, a familiar gesture. “Do...I really give off that impression?”

“Considering the card you gave me last night, I would say that you need to work on that area.”

“Hmm. Maybe I can surprise you,” Judai replied, and then he dipped his head down, the chain going up. He held the pendant out to Manjoume. “Yubel almost gave the answer away earlier. Have you guessed what this is yet?”

Its edges were dull, the bronze pebbled with indents. It was an open curve, rough as if it had been chipped off a larger object. Attached with a small ring, the chain flowed with the slope of his palm.

“This…is something from your past life.”

Judai nodded. “We found it by accident. Johan was after these smugglers bringing in counterfeit cards, so Yubel and I decided to team up with him. Their boss was funneling the money into some kind of rare card scheme. It was like alchemy, taking something worthless and using it to make something valuable.” He paused, leaning back on his palms. “Although, their boss didn't just collect cards. There were paintings, old coins, books, sets of armor… Everything was in the back of this old shipping container. The machines that printed the counterfeit cards were in the next container, and, well, it goes without saying that the guards weren’t _too_ far away.”

“An organized crime syndicate versus two clueless Duel Academia graduates,” Manjoume mumbled, and Judai was already on the defensive, his smile hesitant. “Honestly, it's like there's an ongoing competition between you, Johan, and Edo for who can make the _worst_ possible decisions.”

“Hey, don't say _that,_ ” Judai chided, bumping his shoulder. “Besides, something tells me that you would've tagged along for this one. Expensive art, rare cards, taking out some bad guys…”

Because Judai was right, Manjoume scowled at him. “Whatever. Just get on with the next part.”

“Alright, alright… I ended up dueling their boss for the whole collection, and it was tense at first. I dropped below 500 after the fourth turn,” Judai said, concentrating, “but she underestimated Yubel's effects, and together we won that duel.”

“...And this means that you're the owner of a priceless art collection?”

“Uh. Not exactly…”

“Judai.”

“I mean, a collection like that would be more trouble than it's worth, right?”

“...What part of 'priceless’ don't you understand?”

With a broad smile, Judai took the pendant back, dangling it across one finger. It swayed.

“Johan got two of the local museums involved, and they were still moving everything into storage when we left. A collection like that, it shouldn't end up forgotten in some box. They even took the cards.” But Judai wasn't done yet, the chain slipping over his knuckles. “Although, one small piece was lost in the confusion. Maybe it was selfish of me, but technically I won back it in that duel.”

“Won it…'back’?”

“Yubel recognized it right away. My past self wore a brooch on his cloak. It's strange, isn't it? This piece of our nameless kingdom is still here even though its history has been forgotten.”

“Most of it has,” Yubel corrected, a disembodied voice that cut off when Judai laughed.

“Yeah, yeah. You don't let me get away with anything, Yubel.” Suddenly, his focus was on Manjoume again, and they returned to the start of that strange, circling conversation, the pendant back with its owner. “So, what's your verdict? Does my sentimental side impress you?”

“It…” He tried again, a part of him still caught on the details of Judai's story, still taken in by the easy sound of his laugh. “It's better than I expected, although you should be aware of how low my expectations were.”

“Hmm… I'm taking this as a victory.”

“Congratulations,” he muttered.

Coffee was long overdue, as was breakfast, especially for someone like Judai, but he stayed where he was, half under the blankets with Judai a warm shape pressed against his bare arm.

He breathed in, looking down. Crumpled sheets. His own pale wrist. The slight turn of Judai's hand, the knuckles marked with old scars. The sunlight carved a thin path down his bare chest.

The hand passed over his own, and their fingers slotted together.

\---

And he let their breakfast drag into that same kind of silence, the massive dining table behind them and covered with delicate plates, bowls, cups, and glasses. The particulars of fine dining were missed by Judai, prone to blinking down at the complicated garnishes and pronouncing things wrong, and although purchasing only the best ingredients prepared by only the best chefs filled him with a vindictive satisfaction, Manjoume wasn’t _exactly_ a fan of the stifling traditions that were usually associated with expensive food. He had sat through too many tense family parties and events, and while his childhood self had been desperate to justify every terse, stilted interaction, his adult self knew better.

This morning, he had ordered the most expensive dishes on the menu, with room service included, and he ate them with Judai, sitting cross-legged in an armchair and wearing a crumpled hotel robe. His own robe had doubled as a napkin more than once, the sleeve spotted with the tea he had spilled earlier.

Judai had given him a knowing look, and then he had bumped their ankles together.

Eating like this had its advantages, but, combined, they couldn’t match sight of Judai in his apartment, humming as he cracked the eggs and moved the frying pan, the low-attack spirits peeking over his back with curious warbles and chirps.

“I've decided on my next opponent,” Manjoume said. The lesser corporate towers below were banded with cold grey and steel blue. The distant ocean rippled with orange light, and, if he lost his concentration, then they really could have been back in Fortunis, back in that outdated, too-small apartment he had rented as an afterthought.

When Judai raised a finger and pointed at himself, Manjoume rolled his eyes.

“For an _official_ duel, you moron.”

“It could still be me,” Judai said, nodding to himself. “Although, I should warn you that your winning streak would be in danger. I wouldn’t hold anything back.”

“It would be insulting if you did,” Manjoume muttered. “The person I've chosen wants to win against me. His pride is on the line this time.”

Judai tilted his head. He considered it.

“The New Kaiser's deck is strong, but, as a duelist, Sho is more than just the master of those cards. The Cyber Art is a part of his family, and because of Ryo's rehabilitation program, Sho's had the time to refine that style. I…” He trailed off, the focus stark on his face. Yubel flickered. “I'll...have to watch that live. Think you can get me some tickets? Sneaking into the big arenas can be tricky.”

“If you promise to cheer for the best duelist there.”

“I...can't exactly cheer for myself.”

“Are you _serious_?”

Judai laughed. “Ah, so the honest answer was the wrong one.”

“You're just trying to bait me into a duel,” Manjoume mumbled, and it was working, his mind already sorting through his deck. For Judai, he would need more removal cards.

But the flash of his phone was an immediate distraction, and, cursing, Manjoume swiped to his conversation window with Misako.

 

 **Misako / Thunder** **⚡** **Talent Management** **[09:41]: “Manjoume Thunder's Electrifying Victory Stuns a Nation and Energizes an Old Rivalry -- What's Next for Our Star Duelist?” [ READ MORE] **

**Misako / Thunder** **⚡** **Talent Management** **[09:41]: “PHOENIX V. THUNDER, THE DUEL OF FIRE -- Highlights, Analysis, and Predictions from Duel Today's Expert Panelists” [ READ MORE]**

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He shrugged and clicked the screen off. “Just some reading material for later. It's even on my favorite subject.”

“Uhh… Ojamas?”

“No. _Me_.”

Judai tried not to laugh. “Ah, okay. That's...a subject I'm interested in as well. I'm actually something of an expert.”

“If you were,” Manjoume countered, “then you would've given the right answer, idiot.”

Judai's response was interrupted by the shriek of many Ojamas popping into existence at once, and then everything went chaotic, Winged Kuriboh hooting as the brothers, sobbing openly, crawled onto his chest and patted him with their pudgy little fingertips, their massive, beaded tears eventually spilling over and falling through him.

Gross.

“Oh! Oh! You have to come and tell Bell all about it! She's all wiggly!”

“Use a formal tone with your superiors,” Manjoume growled, shoving Ojama Red away from his face. Close up, an Ojama was a terrifying creature. “Did you actually think I'd forget about my responsibilities? Don't make me laugh.”

“O-Our boss… He r-really did it….” Ojama Yellow wiped up his snot with an extra pair of red briefs. “All of these years, all of that hard work… B-Best of all, we Ojamas get to be here too!”

Manjoume looked away. “You don't have to say it like that.”

“B-Boss…”

Ojama Green bounced up and down. “Hey! Just wait until we tell the others back in Fortunis! It'll be like a big, big party!”

Ojama Black cut in. “Yeah, yeah!”

“Hey, you guys should wait until I'm back too,” Judai said, and he immediately received a series of Ojama glares, their faces puckered up. “W-What? Grand Mole would probably join in. Maybe Winged Kuriboh too.”

“You got too many high-attack monsters!” Ojama Green declared.

“Y-Yeah! Plus, why should _we_ wait for _you_?”

“Uhhh….” Ojama Blue coughed and then muttered into his hand, “H-He's sort of, uhh, dating the boss, so…”

While Judai _did_ have a way of charming duel spirits, Ojama Blue was extremely skittish, flinching at unexpected noises and sweating at the mention of any potential danger. Therefore, Judai's quick answer, directed at the little spirit, caused Ojama Blue to cower behind Manjoume.

“Ah, that's right! I should get some special privileges. Like...maybe my own statue…?”

As a top-class duelist, Manjoume did not appreciate being used as a human barricade, but he let it slide, taking a pointed sip of his tea.

The Ojamas answered for him.

“No way!” Ojama Yellow squawked. He stormed over to Judai and rammed a finger in his face, a bold move for a tiny Ojama. “Thunder's _our_ boss, not you! Sure, those heroes have to answer to whatever you say, but not us Ojamas! We have our pride, you know.”

The statement would have been more effective if Ojama Yellow had wiped up _all_ of the snot.

Luckily for Judai, the Ojamas were easily distracted, and within seconds they were floating around the room, bouncing off the table, and poking and prodding at the both of them with the grace and coordination of a band of half-awake toddlers, Ojama Yellow especially prone to tripping over his feet and crying about it.

“So, you're not worried about Sho taking you out?”

He snorted at Judai's question. “If the New Kaiser manages _that_ , then I'll be impressed. After all, every turn against me will be difficult, _very_ difficult.” Ojama Blue was, for reasons unknown, rolling on the floor, and Manjoume shoved him away with a bare foot. Weird.

“Conditions like that can make a duelist grow in unexpected ways,” was Judai's immediate response, and he balanced his cup between his hands, his gaze set on the city waiting outside. “Nothing works better than pressure, and Sho understands this. For him, it's not just the pressure of the Kaiser's gaze, or even that of their dream. He wants to earn the respect of other duelists, and that includes the both of us.”

“He already has mine,” Manjoume answered, scowling a little. “It's the same for you, naturally.”

“Sure, but nothing confirms that like winning a duel.”

“Whatever. It _should_ be in three weeks, not that I expect Sho's team to dispute the details. Since my agency just sent the request, try not to spoil the surprise, Judai. I mean, not that you _should_ be talking to the press to begin with.”

“Have a little more confidence in me than _that_ ,” Judai chided, and Manjoume tried to keep his expression neutral. He failed.

His phone vibrated at the same time as Judai's, and Misako's ID rolled across their screens.

 

 **Misako / Thunder** **⚡** **Talent Management [10:06]: “THUNDER'S SECRET WEAPON: Inside Sources Claim That Manjoume Jun's Exclusive Coach is His Long-Time Rival and Fellow Duel Academia Graduate, Yuki Judai.” [READ MORE]**

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“'Duel genius’? Hold on, I need to save this.”

“Judai…”

He glanced up, blinking widely. “Hmm? Oh, you want me to read it out?”

“I can stop this.” Manjoume paused, scrolling down the list. He tried again. “It would be easy. One email from me would stop any journalist who values their career from writing your name. I would make sure of that.”

Judai stared at him.

“Uh… You don't have to do that.”

Manjoume countered him. “Like I just said, it would be easy. My position has changed.”

“That's not...what I'm getting at,” Judai said, and Yubel showed through, their frown deep and crooked. “This kind of attention is something I can take. I mean, it's been awhile, but I used to enter these regional tournaments, and I guess I developed a following.” Only Yuki Judai would 'guess’ at that, and he continued with a shrug. “It's not a problem, especially if I'm called a 'genius’.”

“You don't get it.”

“...Manjoume?”

Tied to him, the Ojamas had quieted down, the brothers curled up in his lap while Ojama Blue and Red fidgeted on the table, their tiny fingers folded together.

He had to be honest, and every word darkened the shadows of Yubel, their attention growing.

“You're right in that pressure can make a duelist stronger, but it can also break a person down. Don’t forget what you were like just a few months ago. I know that I haven't. I _won't_.”

Judai did not break eye contact, and Yubel had taken on a ghostly form, wisps of scales solidifying into a clawed hand, then a muscular arm.

“Hey, I'm sorry. I...made you go through a lot, didn't I?”

“I don't want an apology from you.” Again, Judai's hand found his, calloused fingers passing over his raised knuckles.

He kept going. “I'll tell my agency to limit the articles. If they get too annoying, I'll put a stop to them entirely, and I dare you to tell me that such actions are unnecessary. Your darling soulmate,” he added, sneering, “has already expressed their concerns for the future, and while I'm not exactly _thrilled_ to be treated like a fool, they do have one point. You're a duelist, Judai. You should know the value of caution.”

Judai sighed, his easy posture broken by the stroke of Yubel's palm down his neck. The dark circles were gone, faded away into memory like the burned-in lines of that shock collar. The clinging static had been shattered.

“Ah, I used to think that the only thing better than having my opponent set a face-down card was doing something to make it flip. Effects built off each other. Duels seemed more exciting that way.” The tension left Judai’s hand, making the fingers slack. Their eyes met. “Then again, it’s just like Daitokuji-sensei always said. The most dangerous chemical reactions are those with unpredictable ingredients.”

Even though Manjoume was not inclined to agree with a transmutation-prone spirit trapped inside a lethargic housecat, which, according to Judai, was probably asleep on Kenzan's couch that very second, he had heard worse advice before.  

“We should hold a strategy meeting with my agency later, since…” He shook his head. “Whatever. I'm the greatest duelist of my generation, and I'm not going to spend the morning after my latest victory coming up with tactics to deal with something that only a _complete_ idiot would think is 'scandalous’.”

“What, dating your coach?”

“Don’t make me regret calling you that.”

“Ah, you shouldn't,” Judai drawled. “There are a lot of things I can teach you. I mean, if you promise to be a good student.”

Manjoume threw a napkin ring at him.

\---

**DB NEWS DAILY**

The Secret Identity of the Duel-Genius-Turned-World-Class-Coach **//** How Yuki Judai Tipped the Scales of PHOENIX V. THUNDER”

 _DB STAFF_ [02:48 today] [576 comments]

 

Before the match began, the energy was, in a word, electric. Piled into the latest testament to **Kaiba Corp** 's dominance in the hyper-competitive tech market, the majority of the sold-out crowd wore the colours of the expected victor, the last Duel Network poll reporting a 78% chance of **Edo Phoenix** closing the duel by the fifth turn.

When **Manjoume Thunder** played Inferno Tempest, that same crowd fell silent, leading to what will undeniably become a crowning moment in his career and the history of competitive **Duel Monsters**. However, this moment is about more than just an off-meta card and a remarkable bait-and-switch strategy against a seasoned opponent.

This moment is about an old rivalry that extends back to the school days of two top duelists. It is a well-known fact that Edo and Manjoume's first televised duel took place at **Duel Academia** and ended in the removal of the disgraced producer **Mike Turnley** from all official events. However, even though the original video has gone viral, many viewers have missed the presence of one **Yuki Judai** , a hero-duelist who may be the greatest rival of Manjoume Thunder and, as our exclusive sources have determined, the one who helped him end Edo Phoenix's reign.

Leaked backstage photos show that Judai was issued a 'TEAM THUNDER’ press pass, and these passes are given out exclusively by **Thunder Talent Management** \-- Manjoume's dedicated branch of the Shibata Management Group, a larger professional duelist agency. Additional photos have confirmed that Judai was registered as an 'outside contractor’ for the agency, and some eagle-eyed Thunder fans have noted the absence of Thunder's usual training partners from his entourage. Confirmation of Judai's role as a one-on-one coach for his schools-days rival came just hours ago. The latest round of leaked photos show his title in full [ **BREAKING //** The Shocking Identity of Thunder’s Mystery Mentor **]**.

Aside from his televised second-year and third-year duels against Manjoume, there is very little footage of the former Slifer Red duelist. Records show that Judai has finished first in amateur tournaments in Japan, Italy, Greece, Spain, France, and Australia. Recently, he accompanied Manjoume to UDDLA's term-end tournament for its students, and he shocked the audience by defeating the club's president, **Tenjouin Asuka** , with a Neo-Spacian deck supported by Elemental Heroes. The footage reveals Judai's evolution as a duelist, one who still favours last-minute reversals, hero-type monsters, and fusion monsters but also plays with a new confidence.

In an exclusive interview, former Duel Academia headmaster **Samejima Hisao** described Yuki Judai as a “natural duelist”. “It was a privilege to watch him grow as a duelist and hone his unique approach to dueling,” he stated to our reporters. “I look forward to hearing more from my former student. He remains the pride of Slifer Red.”

The former headmaster was reluctant to comment on the beginnings of Judai’s rivalry with Manjoume. “The boys have matured since then. I'd suggest asking them that question instead.”

While the Pro League's controversial points system places Manjoume Thunder at rank 15 worldwide, many fans now consider him to be the reigning **Duel Monsters Champion** , a title that could only be disputed for these if the elusive **Moto Yugi** returned to the public eye. However, no matter what ranking system is used, it's undeniable that the Ojama duelist has made a name for himself in the world of competitive dueling.

Until now, the story of Phoenix-Thunder has revolved around the two main rivals and featured commentary from **Marufuji Sho** , a fellow Duel-Academia graduate and practitioner of the Cyber Art style. Yet, these new leaks tell us that this story is still missing a few pages. Who is Yuki Judai? How has his rivalry with Manjoume Thunder changed? Is he a stronger hero-user than the legendary Edo Phoenix? Will he make his own debut in the Pro League?

One thing is certain -- Manjoume Thunder has never been stronger, and the sudden appearance of his oldest rival is connected to Edo Phoenix's stunning defeat.

 

 **RECOMMENDED //** A Retrospective on the Trials and Triumphs of Manjoume Thunder

 **TRENDING ARTICLE //** The Coming Storm -- Who Will Be Manjoume Thunder's Next Opponent?

 **WHAT’S NEXT //** The Immortal Phoenix Has Fallen – Reactions from Dueling’s Best and Brightest

 

\---

“Ah, the biggest compliment was in the title,” Judai said as he scrolled past the comments, his head on Manjoume's shoulder.

“The chancellor called you a 'natural duelist',” Manjoume snapped. “What more do you want?”

“Oh! Right!”

Manjoume shoved him off. Stupidity could be contagious.

Like a house cat, the flickering form of Yubel lay in a patch of sunlight, their dark colours contrasting with the sleek, restrained golds and whites of the luxury suite, outfitted like an apartment. Inevitably, a press release about his relationship with Judai would be necessary -- a 'scandal’ of that nature could be contained if his agency controlled the release of information.

Caution was what Yubel had advised, their mind strategic, their desire to protect Judai all-consuming. That _probably_ meant no more late-night flights through a packed city.

Sparking orange-green eyes slid over to him, a knowing smirk turning those full lips that concealed pointed teeth. “Hmm. Should I be flattered by your attention, Jun-chan?”

He bristled. “A-Address me formally, you freeloader.”

“Ah, I think we're past the need for formalities,” they drawled, a panel of purple scales flickering with greens and blues when Yubel made it tangible. They balanced their chin on one palm. “I didn't realize just how deep that independent streak of yours ran. I should have taken a more, ah, _subtle_ approach earlier.”

When Manjoume glanced to his left, Judai was back in his own chair, scrolling through another article with the kind of focus usually reserved for card games or eating fried shrimp. Of course, Manjoume didn't _need_ assistance to deal with Yubel, still leering at him from the floor.

“I don't need to be sheltered from your honesty.”

A rolling chuckle, Yubel's teeth flashing. The expression could have been one of Judai's. “Ah, my dear… If only you could read his thoughts.” And, for the second fucking time that morning, Yubel rose, solid and languid, to approach him, throwing an armored wrist over the back of his chair. White hair brushed his forehead, and, up close, the hard angles of Yubel's lean body were-

Blinking fast, he flinched when Yubel jerked his chin up with a taloned hand, their touch warm. Their voice was low, a rasping sound that, as a part of this sudden game, made him breath in quickly, his throat tight.

“If you knew just how highly he thought of you,” Yubel began, the orange bright, “you would make an expression even more interesting than this one.”

“Uh…” Judai, who was blinking at them. He had dropped his phone. “Yubel, what are you doing…?”

With their body bracketing his own, Manjoume could feel the ripple of their laughter, and, damn it, he ripped his eyes up from the scales spread over their wide hips, amusement flaring in Yubel's hot stare. “Ah, don't worry, my dear. We're just having a conversation, right?” Yubel watched him swallow. “Or...do you want something more from me, Jun-chan?”

Those nails were curled under his chin.

“So…” Judai again, his expression stunned. He recovered faster than Manjoume did. “Can I join in this ‘conversation’...?”

“Hmm…” And then, with a wide smirk, Yubel turned intangible. “Maybe next time. If memory serves, one of us has a meeting to attend in twenty minutes. I'd hate to interrupt your schedule.”

While Manjoume, running a hand over his burning face, tried to compose himself, now _extremely_ aware of the laughter echoing from Yubel, Judai tilted his head to the side and asked, “Hey, do you really need to attend that meeting?”

“I-Is that a serious question?”

Judai just shrugged at him, and Manjoume, glaring over the hand that covered his blush, considered throwing Judai out the window. The fact that Judai could fly broke the fantasy.

Damn it.

\---

Unfortunately, Judai's soulmate was _right_ \-- he did have a meeting, one he had to focus for.

It was a difficult task now that Yubel, a mocking laugh in the back of his head, had caught _him_ \-- Manjoume Thunder, the new prince of the dueling world -- off guard, _completely_ off guard like an amateur duelist at a local tournament facing a destruction deck. Yubel shared expressions with Judai, their own words sometimes rasping under his. Their wings could break through the edges of his shadow.

“Uh… Manjoume?”

Blinking fast, he composed himself, pushing his styled hair into place and then adjusting his cufflinks. Around them were the elite of his agency, all set on congratulating him in their own coded ways.

Because he could, he had taken Judai with him. The addition of a coal-grey blazer -- thrown at Judai by Misako when they had entered the hallway -- over the black v-neck put Judai _somewhere_ between 'streetwear’ and 'business casual’, acceptable considering the mixture of stiff-suited businessmen and young talent in the boardroom. In preparation for the reporters who, for obvious reasons, had been camped outside the agency's headquarters, Manjoume had opted for a new, all-black three-piece suit, a long, ragged overcoat spread over his shoulders and trailing his every move.

Years of exposure had made it possible to tune out the Ojamas and their constant antics, Ojama Yellow dragging Ojama Blue around the room and pointing out the members of the company, getting every name wrong. The group at the far corner, comprising of the upper-management and the senior partners, had yet to break apart.

“ _If_ I didn't know any better,” Manjoume said, directed at Judai, “I would say Yubel intended to undermine me with that... conversation.”

Judai didn't fit a place like this, just like how the blazer, even with its pre-distressed details, was the wrong cut and style. And, of _course_ , that clothing was also a distraction, something new and unfitting that ended just above the line of Judai's worn jeans, streaked with faded blue. Last night, with his back against a door, breathing hard while narrowed eyes raked over his bared chest, Manjoume had watched Judai push those jeans down and-

 _Damn_ it.

“I'm getting you back for this, _both_ of you,” Manjoume muttered, and Judai raised his eyebrows. “Next time, try being _useful_ before a meeting like this instead. I still need a greeting for the head of the financial department. Takayama-buchou, he never has anything to say, which makes _me_ look like a fool.”

A short pause, and then the air behind Judai shifted, Yubal sprawled over his shoulders, their transparent arms hooked around his waist. And, no, that did _not_ help Manjoume focus, aware of how Judai pushed back into the touch, intangible as it was.

“Start by congratulating him on his daughter's acceptance to Domino University's medical program. That's all he's talked about since entering the room,” Yubel explained, their expression slack with boredom. “Maybe he'll praise you after a statement like that, if that's what you desire from this person.”

“Oh, so _now_ you show yourself,” Manjoume retorted, his arms crossed. “Let me guess, that advice is based off your experience of ancient courts and demonic armies?”

“Just try it,” Judai said, glancing back to give Yubel a quick smile, and the spirit vanished with a matching quirk of their lips. Two halves of a soul. A bond deeper than bone.

Of course the advice worked, the reserved businessman suddenly launching into a _speech_ on the work Manjoume had done for the company, raising it to another level of operations, giving them a name that _meant_ something in such a competitive world. Those gathered in the boardroom were drawn to the passionate words, applause punctuating the last sentence, and Manjoume tried not to scowl when Judai, in the opposite corner, gave him a thumbs-up.

By request, his seat was next to Judai's, and he clipped Judai’s shoulder as he sat down. “I shouldn't have to bother _asking_ for advice like that.”

Judai rolled his eyes. “You’re impossible… I mean, I didn't even know you had a problem with that guy!”

“That's because you're not an observant person. Yubel _is_.” He paused, checking the papers in front of him. He continued in the same whisper. “Why else would they pay attention to Takayama-san over everyone _else_ in the room?”

And, even though he had expected it, the first burst of that dark laughter still made him jump, Misako, on his right side, arching an eyebrow as he grabbed at his water bottle, stopping it from pitching over.

“Ah, you've caught me,” Yubel drawled. “Excellent work, Jun-chan.”

Clicking his tongue, Manjoume shuffled the papers, aware that the president would begin soon, probably in seconds. “Why does that sound so sarcastic coming from you?”

“You're talking to yourself again,” Misako mumbled, and she reached over to flip his papers the right way. Judai hid his laughter with one hand.

Under the table, Manjoume stepped on his foot.

\---

Apparently he had another nickname -- the Phoenix Slayer, dramatic enough to make Yubel scoff and Judai, prone to rambling about heroes and fantasy worlds, latch onto his arm, exclaiming that it was, quote, “even better than Manjoume Thunder!”

A false statement. Nothing could be better than Manjoume Thunder.

After the meeting, Misako had dragged him and Judai into an office, one lined with trophies and promotional photographs of himself, and, blinking up at a massive poster of his signature sneer, Judai asked, “Did...your ego just escape into the real world?”

Manjoume snorted. Idiot.

When the door opened, he straightened to his full height.

Shibata, the president of his agency, was an older man with an eerie resemblance to his father, which _probably_ explained why their first interactions had been stilted, Manjoume wary of a change in those confident mannerisms. Like the cut of his suit, wide at the hem, Shibata could be old-fashioned, leaving the management of the agency's social media strategy and its particular details to others and focusing instead on relationships with sponsors, executives, and other industry professionals, namely those within the Pro League's inner circle. As expected, his tie was knotted with a star pattern, the blue a contrast against the black suit, and, immediately, Misako bowed her head, Manjoume doing the same when the older man's gaze passed over him.

This was a person who had taken a chance on him, someone who had fallen into a trench of losses, choked by the dark of the Pro League's lowest ranks.

“Shachou-san, thank you for your hard work. I hope my result has justified your belief in me,” Manjoume said, and he received a warm laugh in return, Shibata dropping his cane against a cabinet of gilded trophies. Manjoume's victory against Edo was represented by a poster, that of himself pulling Edo back to his feet, their gazes locked. Some ambitious editor had added lightning to emphasize the contact, which Manjoume silently approved of.

“Yuki Judai, someone I haven't had the chance to introduce myself to.” Shibata paused, and Judai gave Manjoume a look that read _'Hey, what's with this situation? Help me out_.’ But the older man didn't stop for long, his next words given with a pleased grin. “Our agency appreciates the effort you've put into helping Thunder succeed. If there's anything we can do for you, please know that we're in your debt.”

“Uh…” Judai shook his head. “We've just met, so you might regret extending that promise to me. I can find myself in some, ah, complicated situations.” That phrase covered everything from apocalyptic duels in other dimensions to, evidently, playing an extended game of cat and mouse with the younger Kaiba brother.

While Manjoume stared at his moronic boyfriend in disbelief, Shibata let out a hearty laugh and patted the middle of his double-breasted suit jacket. “Complete honesty. How rare is that? My job would be a lot easier if my investors acted that way, not to mention my employees!”

With that same winning smile, Judai replied with, “Ah, but if everyone acted like me, you probably wouldn't have much of a company.”

Another bark of laughter from Shibata, who, despite the hard angle of his jaw and trimmed beard shot with white, did not resemble Manjoume's father at _all_ when he ran a ringed hand over his face, more laughter bubbling up when Judai, shrugging, joined in. This left Manjoume with Misako, and they shared a quick look, as if to confirm that their boss, a master of coded rhetoric, was _really_ laughing that hard at a series of Judai-level jokes.

But Misako was never the type to waste an opportunity, and she quickly whispered in his ear, “I don't know the purpose of this meeting, only that the president himself requested it with the three of us.”

Anything more than a nod would have been suspicious, and Manjoume moved away, his arms crossed.

It was a room containing four tacticians, five if he separated Yubel, but only one of them had the key.

The turn of it came faster than expected, Shibata facing all of them, and even though the good humor was still visible, _something_ made Manjoume tense, his fingers twitching when they dug into his arm. The topic should have been a predictable one.

“Judai, perhaps Thunder has told you already, but I have one son, two daughters, and three grandchildren. I attended two weddings last month, and _while_ my ability to recover from a hangover isn't what it used to be, I have become something of an expert in identifying the relationships between people at a glance, which, as you can guess, is advantageous in the business world.” Shibata paused, adjusting the position of his cane, nondescript but polished. “It’s unfortunate how relationships and business can intersect, isn't it? Young people are often pressured to act a certain way. Sometimes they have to deny parts of themselves.”

Manjoume had bristled, holding back a snarl, but Misako had already stepped in front of him, her shoulders set in a strong line.

“Shachou-san, I should be the one to apologize. Thunder gave me the privilege of knowing about his ongoing relationship with Yuki Judai, and I failed to inform the senior management of this fact. I would have waited until tomorrow, after the full extent of this victory could be celebrated. I take full responsibility for any inconvenience this has caused.”

And, stunned, he was slow to process those words, the Ojamas gasping in his ear. She had always stood by him, a flicker of sleek black-blue hair and a determined voice, always fast to respond.

There was only one choice.

He walked in front of her, and he stood between his manager and his boss. He breathed in slowly, aware of the debts that he owed both of them -- a bottom-ranked duelist with broken connections, an overwhelmed fool with a fading dream.

“I bear the responsibility for this, Shachou-san. To be part of an agency is to understand that our careers are connected, and by keeping information that could affect my image from the senior management, I have taken an unnecessary risk. I apologize,” he stated, bowing his head. “Any repercussions should fall on me alone.”

“Thunder…”

Without effort, Shibata held his stare, and even the Ojamas, hanging off him like a trope of ugly bats, had trailed off into silence, their little fingers clenched in the front of his vest.

“This isn't a reprimand,” Shibata said with a shake of his head, but Manjoume kept his guard up. “I don't expect for our relationship to change its dynamic, Thunder. However,” he added, “in the future, I would advise being a little more, ah, _forthcoming_ with information of this nature. The hard truth is that a scandal at this point of your career could be difficult to control.”

“I understand.”

Shibata nodded at him, and it eased the pressure that had gathered, heavy and insistent. Manjoume stepped back, aware of how Misako flanked him.

Again, Shibata addressed Judai. “You were the subject of an article in the Pro League Insider this morning. The term the journalist used for the two of you is 'rivals’. I assume I'm correct when I say that this term is insufficient.”

The slight smirk fit Yubel's face better. It was aggressive on Judai's features. “How I answer that question depends on what you _really_ want to know. Sorry, but I'm going to need more information than that, Jiji.”

Only Yuki fucking Judai would call his boss, a forty-year venture of the competitive Duel Monsters industry, 'Old Man’ and expect to get away with it, which, judging by the loud laughter, Judai _somehow_ had. Unbelievable.

Absolutely unbelievable.

“The luckiest idiot on the entire planet,” Manjoume grumbled, and Misako's raised eyebrows meant that she, silently, agreed with him.

Shibata's attention remained on Judai.

“So, there's one topic that breaks your honest streak,” he observed, and then he chuckled, adjusting the large ring on his right hand. “Although, all things considered, we've had extraordinary luck with Thunder. Some would say that he's overdue for a scandal. Wouldn't you agree, Misako-kun?”

She smoothed out the front of her dress, the black overlain with grey panels to complement Manjoume's overcoat. “If I may speak freely,” she began, “I would say our agency has benefited greatly from Thunder's persistence, and his style of dueling has forged a new direction for all of us. In addition, while his work with Industrial Illusions could be viewed as a hindrance, the truth is that it has also allowed us to make connections within the company, which may prove valuable as we expand our operations. And…” A rare hesitation, but she recovered quickly. “It is my belief that our company should do everything in its power to serve the person who has only given us his best.”

Manjoume looked away, one hand tightening his tie. “You...don't have to say that.”

“Which is why it's important that I _do_ say it,” Misako countered, but she turned back to their boss, her tone formal. “I would advocate for a press release after Thunder v New Kaiser. By that point, Phoenix should have made his return to the public eye, and the presence of another popular narrative will reduce the pressure on us to make a perfect statement.”

It was no accident that the company was in Shibata's name, his response calculated. “Ah, but the weeks _after_ that duel will also be busy for us, as our dear Thunder still has to reach the Pro League's minimum number of duels played for the quarter. That is one disadvantage of these exhibition matches and the built-up they require,” Shibata lamented, adjusting his cane. “However, it is my opinion that it would be wise to delay the announcement further than that.”

“May I ask why?”

“The legacy of Phoenix v Thunder is still being established, and the public's frenzy over that duel will be renewed when Phoenix himself returns to limelight,” Shibata explained. “If the public connects Judai here to the duel, that's only natural, since he _did_ play a role in it. However, we don't want the public to associate those topics _too_ closely, otherwise any discussion of that duel _could_ automatically lead to a discussion of your personal life, Thunder.”

“Impressive,” drawled a disembodied voice in dulcet tones, but Yubel remained out of sight. At his side, Misako cleared her throat, her response faster than his own.

“Yes, of course, but it is also important to limit the media coverage of Judai. If we don't, the speculation on their relationship will only continue, and we need to control how this narrative develops.”

“True,” Shibata said, with a nod of his head. “However, Misako-kun, it is _also_ important not to limit that coverage too much. A blackout would be unwise. Think of it from the public's perspective. A professional duelist falling for his coach is, if you'll forgive me, a cliché, and it's easy for the public to understand and sympathize with those involved. However, for a professional duelist to be a relationship with an unknown figure from his past _would_ be surprising, and the media coverage of such an event could become invasive.” He paused before adding, “To put it simply, it's in your best interest to allow _some_ articles to be published. Establishing a public profile for Judai is important to managing what will happen next.”

And, indignant, Manjoume couldn't stop himself from grimacing. What a fucking _pain_.

“We need to stay on top of this,” Misako stated, and she was right, but-

“Fine. Whatever.” Manjoume raked a hand through his hair, careless of where he broke a patch of gel. Sticky, stiff. “Just keep me informed. Anything involving Judai goes through _me_ first.”

The sudden hand on his shoulder was from Judai, his smile bright at the edges. “Hey, don't you already have enough to do, Mr. Phoenix-Slayer? I have a friend who can help me out, so don't worry about it.”

'Friend’ did not cover Yubel, but explaining who and _what_ they were would probably end in total confusion. Even the abbreviated version -- Judai's human-dragon soulmate from a past life who was also a playing card and had once terrorized both of them as an evil chessmaster in another dimension -- would leave far, _far_ too many questions.

Judai continued, teasing. “Hmm, I also remember dueling you just the other day with the condition that if I won, you would have to let me deal with the media stuff. Am I right about that?”

Clicking his tongue, Manjoume shrugged the hand off, aware of the amusement that Shibata showed, drumming his fingers on the cane. “You shouldn't brag about old victories, Judai. I'll have you know that I'm much stronger now.”

“That duel was only two days ago!”

“It doesn't count.”

“...It what?”

Misako interrupted with a cough. “Thunder, we're not done here.”

“Moving forward,” Shibata began, and Manjoume stiffened, “I would recommend that Judai here does an interview or two on his role with our company and, more importantly, with Thunder as a fellow duelist. If we give the public something to think about, we can control the trajectory of their speculation to some extent. Giving them no information at all is, under these circumstances, dangerous.”

“Shachou-san,” Manjoume said, ignoring the steep arch of Misako's thin eyebrows, “you _have_ met Judai. I don't mean to be disrespectful of your position, but are you _sure_ that's a good idea?”

Shibata chuckled, and then Judai was back on his shoulder again, the weight enough to make Manjoume stagger. “Ah, now I get it,” Judai drawled, leering at him. “You're worried that my natural charm will win over your fans!”

“Y-You moronic….”

His practiced, _feared_ glare slid off Judai like it was nothing, and, as a substitute for throttling one Yuki Judai, Manjoume settled for jerking his tie to the side and leveling that glare at the wall instead.

“It should be possible for you to attend such an interview, Thunder,” Misako, the all-powerful master of his schedule, confirmed, and Shibata hummed in agreement. “After all, if he is your coach, then it makes perfect sense for the two of you to travel together.”

“If anything, you should travel together _more_. It would help establish the narrative that we want,” Shibata added, and Judai let out a low whistle, which meant that he was thinking. “What do you say, Judai? How about spending the next month with our agency?”

Curiosity made Manjoume look over. Leaning against the pedestal holding the Japan Cup, Judai, all sharp angles and coiled focus, did not answer immediately, the flickers of Yubel manifesting as scattered scales -- intangible, losing their colours as they disappeared.

“Sorry, Jiji, but following a schedule like Manjoume's would wear me out after a few days. No offense.” Those eyes, flashing, met his own, and Judai smirked. Honest. Confident. “Don’t get me wrong. There's nothing better than hanging out with Thunder, but I need my space, you know? Plus, I have my own commitments to another company.”

It was a different kind of distance, the kind that Manjoume could accept without a second thought.

“I lose brain cells after every conversation I have with this idiot,” Manjoume muttered. “My dueling would suffer if we were forced to travel together all the time.”

“Ah, you shouldn't say that about your coach…”

“Shut up.”

Again, Misako cleared her throat, and this time Shibata's laugh caught him off guard. “Alright, it's settled then! Judai, send Misako-kun a copy of your schedule, and we'll work something out with Thunder's. As a matter of courtesy, we'll pick an established interviewer with ties to our agency. There's no risk involved that way.”

“Uhh… ‘Schedule.'’ Judai pronounced the word with a grimace. “Sure. I...totally have one of those written down. Somewhere. Yeah.”

And the next subject should have been predictable as well, but Manjoume -- trying to catalogue all that had just happened, to process how easily Judai, self-assured, had dealt with everything -- was too slow, and he almost flinched when Shibata stepped closer, the expression a disarming one.

“Well, we should have more time tonight to discuss this matter. After all, the entire agency will be there at the victory celebration. Each of the sixteen courses is dedicated to our agency's most flashy and eye-catching member, the one and only Manjoume Thunder. A victory like this doesn't happen everyday, and we should seize the moment.”

Judai perked up. “Oh. There's a big dinner tonight?”

Shibata turned to him, surprised. “Of course. We treat our talent well.”

“Ah, sorry, but I'm going to have skip it. My plane's at five tonight. Wait. Maybe it's six?”

“Seven-thirty,” Misako corrected. “You will arrive two to three hours early for your international flight.”

“Oh… Is that so?”

Thinking fast, Manjoume clicked on his phone and swiped to his schedule. He scrolled through the solid blocks. Misako had set his break from four to five p.m.

“We'll have to switch cars at the agency, otherwise the paparazzi could trail us to the airport,” she muttered in his direction, twisting one chain of her silver earrings. “I can drive. Provided that the traffic isn't too heavy, we should arrive back in time for your next appointment.”

“Thank you.”

She let the chain go. “Consider it a professional courtesy. A mistake in my scheduling made it so we couldn't greet him properly when he arrived. Therefore, it's only fair that I correct such an oversight.” With a sigh, she added, “It's unsightly to leave a privileged guest of the Manjoume Thunder waiting in a hotel lobby for an hour.”

Judai piped up with, “To be fair, they _did_ have free WiFi, so it wasn't that bad.”

Clicking the screen off, Manjoume exhaled, a weight off his shoulders. No, it wouldn't have been right to drag Judai after him for weeks on end, but, still, those few hours they had were draining away, coming closer to just minutes, just seconds.

“Shachou-san, I'll show Judai the strength of our agency before he takes off. After all, it should be acceptable if he attends my next event.”

The older man laughed to himself. “As always, you catch on quickly. I was just about to suggest that myself. I'm sure that your dear fans want to see for themselves if Yuki Judai is a suitable coach for their idol.”

“Uh…. Where _exactly_ are we going?” Judai asked, and Manjoume just crossed his arms and leaned back.

“Well, well. Yuki Judai, the 'natural duelist’, can't figure it out. How sad.”

Judai rocked back on his heels. “Yeah, yeah. Just tell me.”

“I'll give you a hint,” Manjoume said, sneering. He gestured to his side, a cabinet bright with trophies and framed achievements, overlapping from the sheer quantity. “It's a place that will make this room look like nothing. You haven't seen the true meaning of my fame yet.”

“Err… So, it's somewhere with even more photographs than this?”

\---

There were a _lot_ more photographs, all of his own smirking face.

While his fanclub could have easily filled a stadium of their own, that would have defeated the purpose of an exclusive post-victory fan meeting like this, the seating limited to less than two-hundred privileged individuals. The event hall, segmented by rows of seats, a sleek duel area, and the raised stage, thrummed with the energy of his fans, their chants rising and falling with the beats of the video montage that spanned the massive screen -- each one building to his duel against Edo, the crown jewel. A tapered beast carved of white and black, Light and Darkness Dragon let out a bellowing screech as its effect as activated, driving down its attack points, and the crowd, reactive, thrust their signs higher in the air, the banners all reading his name.

From backstage, he dropped the black curtain back into position, and he raised an eyebrow at Judai. “Well? What do you think?”

“I was wrong earlier,” Judai said, blinking fast. “ _This_ is what your ego looks like.”

Manjoume scoffed, and he moved back into position, a stylist grabbing at his hair and shoving it into place while another fixed a seam on his dueling jacket, modeled after his one from last night but with added streaks of electric blue.

Narrow, the backstage area pressed in around them, a mixture of equipment and personnel, all shouting over each other as the montage neared its end.

“Huh. I’d expected more Ojama spirits,” Judai commented as he leaned over Manjoume to take a longer look at the gathered crowd, close enough that Manjoume went still, aware of the rasp of Judai's loose jacket against his. “This community you've brought together, they're not just trying to copy your style, are they?”

“That would be insulting. I've forged my own path and created my own style of dueling. A genuine fan of Manjoume Thunder would respect that.”

“You have a speech for everything, don't you?” Judai asked with an angled grin, and then he pulled back, letting a stiff-armed stylist through so she could, with unnecessary force, straighten his lapels. Like Judai, he had seen the spirits thread through the crowd, Prevent Rat squeaking as it raced after Birdface, wings extended. “Traveling around with Yubel and Daitokuji-sensei, I met so many duelists who felt lost, trying to piece together their own decks but not knowing how to start. From what I've seen, encountering a duelist confident in their cards helps more than anything else.” The heavy roar was from Ojama King, leaping forward with an extended punch to the frantic, lifting cheers of his fans, but Judai's voice still carried, his arms crossed as he stood against a support pillar. “Although, this place is totally packed. I guess your conversations with these fans are going to be pretty short, huh?”

“Is that a criticism?” Manjoume shot back, and the montage was approaching its end, the music straining with tense strings as the announcer built to the footage of Edo, one who had been undefeated for so long.

Tilting his head back, Judai considered his answer, the pinch of his eyebrows Yubel-like, indicative of the dual minds at work. “No, not really. You don't have to meet someone for a long time to be inspired by them. Connections like that can happen in an instant.” He shrugged, at perfect ease despite the surge of people, the thrumming noise from the stage. “Of course, nothing connects people like a duel, and it's the same for those in the audience too.”

At the start of his career, Manjoume had his reputation from Duel Academia to rely on, bolstered by that first victory over Edo, and some of his fans from that time remained, their lives moving forward in different, curving ways. Between fanmeetings, people graduated or changed careers. Some were married, a golden band flashing as an Ojama poster was taken back. Some entered tournaments of their own, retelling the events with an undeniable, rippling enthusiasm that he could never ignore, that he could answer with the same honesty.

Here, less than a meter from the entrance to the stage, the support carried a unique energy, and it had already started to soar as the red core of Inferno Tempest formed itself. The mentor smashed down to a rain of cheers, the holoprojectors simulating the thick, choking ash.

A worthy scene for an entrance.

“Although,” Judai said next, taking a long step to reach his side, “I never understood why your insignia is called a ‘Manjoume Thunder Bolt’. Lightning is the visible part, so thunder is just the sound of a storm.”

“It's called 'branding,’ you moron.”

“It's...not accurate though, is it?”

Manjoume felt his face twitch. “Judai, you have a monster card with the name 'Air Hummingbird’ that looks _nothing_ like a hummingbird. Don't come to _me_ with claims of scientific accuracy.”

Judai blinked quickly, which was the equivalent of a computer crashing and then restarting. “H-Hey, I was a kid when I designed those cards! Go easy on me!”

“Why would _I_ when you-!”

“You're on in one minute,” Misako observed, who was standing behind them and tapping a stack of papers with a creased expression, the assistant behind her juggling multiple cellphones. Manjoume turned back to Judai.

Judai, the person he used to watch stand at the shore, alone.

“If I find out you've caused trouble for the staff, I'll be pissed off,” he started, a thin eyebrow arched. “You should also know that watching my entrance is mandatory. I expect to hear a full report on my brilliance and imposing stature.”

“I'll...try?” Judai replied, blinking fast again. The cheers had reached a new height, a new crown.

Manjoume continued, his arms crossed. “I take it that you're going to run off and inspect this place on your own? Maybe convince some of my fans to show off their decks and rare cards?”

A guilty smile, more than just familiar by now. “Ah, that telepathy of yours could make our next duel tough for me…”

“You _do_ understand that alternatives exist, such as organizing introductions with the leaders of my fansites, taking on a referee position in the official club tournament… I can have every line of dialogue scripted, Judai.”

“I know, I know.” Judai paused, and his eyes were bright, flecked with amber. “But the curiosity goes both ways. If your fans want to know about someone close to you, then I want to know about them. It makes perfect sense, doesn't it?”

“You _will_ draw attention to yourself if you walk around this event hall by yourself. There's nothing predictable about a situation of that nature.”

A shadow of Yubel parted the space above Judai -- the elongated fold of a dark wing.

But Judai only grinned wider and placed a hand on his arm, dragging it down slowly enough that the contact lasted, that it pressed in through the thick fabric. A calloused hand mapped with old scars and rough-textured burns, the nails bitten short.

“Yes, but I know I can handle this. Trust me.”

“You're impulsive.”

Judai laughed, and his fingers caught on a decorated cuff, dancing over the attached studs. Their eyes met.

“If it helps, Yubel's planned an escape route, as part of our, ah, agreement about today. Oh, and I promise not to tell _too_ many stories about my Neo-Spacians taking out your Ojamas.”

When they dueled in their apartment, Judai would play his cards with a perfect confidence, the reactions immediate. The strategies were impeccable, aiming to take the pace of a duel and control it. Counters led into attacks. A parry would be followed through with a deeper strike. That deck was folded steel, shaped as the extension of the duelist who wielded it.

As a duelist, Judai was strong, his deck the chipped and weathered blade of a master. The dents could be deceiving, drawing in long shadows.

“Your boring hero-monster stories won't win over my fans, so don't even try,” Manjoume mumbled, and those fingers brushed his knuckles, light as the touch of a falling leaf.

“Hmm. That sounds like a challenge,” Judai said, and then he stepped back, the air shifting. The music had started to build, the announce nearing the mention of Manjoume's stage name.

He set his shoulders high, his expression that of a victor. Sneering, condescending.

“You know,” Judai began as their shoulders knocked together, his teeth flashing, “while your concerned expression is cute and all, I _think_ I prefer the one you're wearing now.”

“You'll see it again when I win our next duel,” was Manjoume's response, and then he was throwing back the curtain and striding out into the light, the chant reaching a new, higher peak and then soaring above it only seconds later, the raise of his arm like a banner. It was the magnetic energy of a stadium condensed, and he pivoted, his fingers spread out.

“One!”

“Ten!”

\---

Name, relation, profession. The three cardinal aspects of a formal greeting.

Unlike the Ojamas, who were prone to mumbling and burping their way through difficult names, _he_ tried to keep such vital information in his memory. His agency had its employees. The Pro League had its officials, duelists, and legions of support staff. His official fan club numbered in the thousands.

But fan meetings bridged that distance, little by little. If a name slipped away, the Ojamas babbling their useless drivel in his ears, then he would be reminded of an experience as he formed the loops of his signature -- a test that person wanted to pass, a classmate they wanted to ask out.

For someone who had made a career out of sneering, flaring his trench coat, and playing card games, Manjoume had given out enough relationship advice during the short windows of his fanmeetings to make Fubuki more than just proud, possibly teary-eyed. Multiple times he had rephrased advice meant for Asuka. Fubuki had been particularly fond of reciting multi-stanza poems on the delicate 'rose-like’ nature of courtship with a dreamy gaze at the horizon.

After the initial act on stage, the meetings themselves began, himself behind a long table with a pack of markers, a stack of headshots, and more posters of the Ojama brothers than necessary, the spirits prone to floating over them and critiquing the compositions. For revenge, Manjoume added his share of mustaches and beards in unwashable marker, earning a ringing laugh from a teenage boy with an insect-type deck. The beating of composite wings hung in the air as the boy, waving his hands rapidly, described his new rival, a girl in the grade above his own.

His fans were quick to congratulate him on his latest victory, bowing low on the other side of the table as he, listening with his full attention, taking in every word, waited to respond in his own way. He answered their questions and concerns. He chose his words carefully, the Ojamas sometimes drawn in and hovering by his side, humming as they nodded along. Other spirits ran thick in this place, furred beasts yapping at each other as dragons and harpies twisted by the rafters, their movements fluid. Those fans he had already greeted gathered at the far end of the hall, the duel area divided into a series of smaller arenas, and his current and previous decks were pre-loaded into the computers alongside the rare and notable cards of his opponents. As he finished his signature with a jagged mark, Red-Eyes Black Dragon emerged to some scattered cheers, other duels continuing while the gleaming scales were rendered, the sheen in hard blocks of white against the black.

That Kida Aya played an Amazoness deck was obvious, a bundle of metal tiger charms hanging off her well-worn backpack and a spiked wristband clasped above a pawprint tattoo, and he had met her before her highschool graduation, right after she, pulling down the too-long sleeves of a baggy hoodie, had backed out of a local tournament. She had explained the event with averted eyes, hiding behind the wild, pale strands that had escaped her tight braid.  

Originally, she had only attended that fanmeeting to support a friend.

But then he saw her again and again, enough that even Ojama Yellow, fumbling with the waistband of his briefs for _some_ reason, probably a disgusting one, mumbled her name correctly. “Oh, it’s Aya-chan, that super-shy buff girl.”

Ojama Green hummed. “Yeah, she puts Ojama Blue to shame.”

“E-Excuse me?!”

“But, I mean, her muscles aren’t as hard and shiny as mine! Check out this pose!”

“W-Wah!”

Manjoume, aware that he had picked the _wrong_ time to switch to decaffeinated coffee, tuned the idiots out, their little fingers and toes flailing somewhere by his forehead. When Aya, beaming from ear to ear, snapped into a rigid ninety-degree bow, the end of her side-ponytail slipped over her bare shoulder. Her sleeveless shirt was covered with his insignia. “T-Thunder, congratulations on your victory over the immortal Phoenix! P-Please know that I was rooting for you from the start, and that every turn of yours reached me and all of your fans!”

“I understand that,” he said, and, fumbling with the straps of her backpack, she straightened again. “I take it that my performance has inspired you as a fellow duelist.”

Aya nodded hard enough to send the event pass around her neck flying. “Y-Yes!! Very much so! I-I’m also so, so grateful that I won my prefecture’s fan lottery and could attend today! S-So many fan leaders are here…”

“As they should be,” Manjoume replied, and he uncapped a blue marker, his smirk angled high. “After all, I _am_ the duelist who has captured the world’s attention, and this last victory of mine will change the course of Duel Monster’s history.”

Another quick nod. “Yes! All of your fans are here supporting you along the way! And, oh! Right!” Rolling back one shoulder, she pulled out a folded poster from the bag, himself in profile against a dark blue backdrop. He took it with a raised eyebrow, the Ojamas quick to comment on the caption – ‘ _THUNDER, THE DARK HORSE OF THE DUELING WORLD’._ “Ah, it’s from a few seasons ago… I-I thought it would be appropriate because, um, y-your position has changed so much, so a new signature would like… Um… I-It would represent your progress, so…”

“A thoughtful gesture,” he said, and he started at the top, the marker gliding over a canopy of stars.

“D-Do you mind if I ask you a question about that duel?”

“No question is too difficult for a talented duelist like myself.”

When he glanced up, her fingers were playing with the straps again, adjusting them up and down. “A card like Inferno Tempest, it…hasn’t appeared in an official deck for a long time. Did something inspire you to use that card?”

“I attended a student tournament at UDDLA,” he explained, starting on the next line. A short dedication. “One of the participants built his deck around that card, and I suppose that many people have forgotten that _I_ have had it in my collection for a long time.” Retrieved from the icy sheets and planes around North Academy, clutched at with at unfeeling grasp, his palms raw and red from the endless frost. “But, more than that, I knew the person I was facing that day. I also knew the person I would have to be to defeat him.”

“Duels help people grow. They…connect us all,” she confirmed, her voice quiet beneath the cheers of the event hall, more monster cards sparking into existence as the duels continued. In front of them was a sea of blue banners. Some handmade. Some bearing his signature. “I cannot express how much these experiences have changed me. Dueling in my local tournaments, attending events like this…”

“If you want a formative experience, then go duel whoever keeps playing the spell-heavy Red-Eyes deck.” He finished the signature, and Aya smiled at him, her ponytail bobbing as she rocked back on her feet. Unseen by its master, Amazoness Tiger circled behind her, dragging its massive paws in heavy, lazy steps. Its jaws parted in a deep yawn. “Your deck swarms the field and exploits its monster effects, so an opponent with a counter-heavy deck will be a challenge.”

Beaming even brighter, Aya took the poster back and held it to her chest, jumping a little. “Thank you for believing in me, Thunder! I’ll try my best to be victorious!”

“Duel as someone I can be proud of,” was his reply, and the cat spirit, trailing after her, glanced back over a lowered shoulder. With a low flick of its striped tail, it turned back, the beats of its paws slower than the quick, bouncing strides Aya made towards a small group of duelists her age, their own posters clutched tightly.

And, smirking to himself, he twirled the cap of the marker. Earnest words were given easily. He took the praise of his fans.

And then the elbows hitting his table were from Misako, her new empire-cut dress in folds of electric blue, the straps a distressed black riddled with decorative stitches in white. “We’re on schedule for the closing interview, and I’ve screened the additional questions from the audience,” she reported, tucking back a strand of dark hair with a frown. “I’ve taken the liberty of screening the questions for your interview tomorrow as well, not that it should be necessary with such a reputable company.”

“Good.” He pushed his chair back, adjusting the flared collar of his jacket next. “Let me know of any changes to my schedule.”

“Of course,” she answered with a slight bow, and the staff had begun to change the setup on the stage, currently two chairs in opposing positions with a floor-to-ceiling teal banner in the background, the fabric rippling with the black stencil of his insignia. Bold. Direct.

Ideal.

The interviewer would be Yumi, an idol turned duelist who was signed to the same parent agency, and her experience combined with the restricted nature of this event, all cameras forbidden, meant that it would be a relatively predictable interview. He rolled his shoulders as he stood up, and the coo of Winged Kuriboh gave him _some_ warning for what would happen next, that monster’s master approaching the edge of the stage and throwing his arms on it with a winning smile, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“Guess I’m too late a signature from Manjoume Thunder. Ah, that’s a shame.”

“If you’re lucky,” Manjoume retorted as Judai hefted himself up with both hands, his patched deck holster clicking with the sudden motion, “someone will eventually take pity on you and laugh at your poorly timed jokes. However, I highly doubt that I, Manjoume Thunder, am the person for that.”

“You’re really set in that persona, aren’t you?” Judai asked, which _didn’t_ need an answer. He let out a laugh. “Well, I, Yuki Judai, did everything in my power to mention how strong of a duelist you are and how great the Ojamas are, not that I _really_ had to. I mean, your fans are pretty… Uh…”

“Pretty ‘what’?”

“…Enthusiastic?” was what Judai settled on, one finger bouncing off his forehead. “Yeah, that’s…the word for it.”

“Naturally. They are _my_ fans.”

“Somehow, I still underestimate your ego.”

Manjoume scoffed, and Judai followed him backstage. A stylist immediately descended on his bangs, and Judai watched the proceedings, some hairspray and pointy things involved, with two raised eyebrows. Yumi, her hair stark violet and set in two pigtails, was with Misako, staring intensely at a copy of the script ringed with highlighter marks and sticky notes.

A question remained, but Manjoume held it back for a moment.

“By the way, since when was Pot of Greed banned from the Pro League?”

“Five seasons. Did you really _not_ notice?”

“Well, there’s still Jar of Greed…”

“As a trap card that has to be set first, it’s not nearly as effective,” Manjoume answered. “But, of course, every card has its use, even one as tedious as Jar of Greed. I could throw it into my deck if that would impress you, Judai.”

A slight chuckle, Judai tilting his head back. “So, does this mean I get to make special requests of the great Manjoume Thunder? Ah, I’m not sure I can handle that responsibility…”

Smart-ass. But when the stylist and her assistant moved away, Manjoume gave the narrow hall a quick glance. Yubel’s translucent scales ruptured their reality, shimmering black-dark over Judai’s wrists. A pause, and then Judai started first, his smile at perfect ease.

“I can see why you wanted to show me this place. The duelists here all recognize your strength, perhaps in the same way that I do.” Another pause, and Judai could have moved closer than this, his chin tilted down. “You’ve given me a new sight, a place united by a single duelist. Thank you.”

As an absolute, total, _complete_ moron, Judai said those words with the same smile, one that he could feel as a slow, spreading warmth, and Manjoume jerked back with a hand dragging over his face, fucking _aware_ that, in the seconds before hitting the stage, he should look intimidating, assertive. Maybe even aggressive.

“D-Don’t…” What _exactly_ was he ordering Judai to do? The Ojamas were loud, and he waved them off. Right. He was backstage, and Yuki Judai was, without any effort at all, saying things that did _not_ help his image. “W-Whatever, Judai. Although, you shouldn’t have the wrong impression. There are more sights that are reserved for only the greatest professional duelists, and… Well, that wasn’t all I can show you, if you want…to see more. Later, I mean.”

Maybe he had spent too much time around Ojama Blue, perfectly, one-hundred-percent aware that he was rambling while Judai, just standing there and somehow being _infuriating_ for it, blinked at him.

Yuki Judai was the type of person to put gum in his mouth without taking off the wrapper, which meant that his overall intelligence, in Manjoume’s humble opinion, left much to be desired. And yet he made some connections faster than anyone else, like taking cards off a table at random and suddenly holding a complete deck, an energy thrumming within it. “Ah, you mean the view from the stage, don’t you? I saw the crowd from it earlier, and-”

“No, you didn’t,” Manjoume added, and the interest from Judai was clear, flaring with motes of royal yellow. “Most of the audience was caught up in the duels at the back of the hall.” He shook his head. “No, that’s not the full potential of a position like that.”

Judai stared at him. “Manjoume, it’s your call. I’ll join you on stage whenever you want me to.”

And he _did_ want that, the flashes of those lights like the streams of the spirits that only Judai could see, surging up into the divide between their worlds. “Not yet, but…”

“Hmm?”

Soon the backstage area would explode with activity again, the crowd gathering for the final event of that fanmeeting. He knew that he could master it, taken in by the momentum of this place.

“If you’re on stage with me,” he began carefully, and Judai’s strong gaze made his throat tight, the brittle words driving his heartbeat faster and faster, “then you get to see what I do. I-It’s only fair, after all you’ve shown me, and I…could give you that sight easily. It’s…what I’ve really achieved, after all of this time.”

Here, millimeters had to remain between them, but he still shuddered when Judai nodded.

“I would like that.”

\---

“This has happened before,” Judai said, turned towards the window and watching the passing cars, shuttered by bands of shadows from the towers overhead. His chin was against his palm. Purring, Winged Kuriboh hugged the collar of his jacket, its little claws twitching as it rested, close to sleep. “You, me. A ride to the airport. Although, I guess our roles are reversed this time, aren’t they?”

“That was after my session at the Fortunis research center,” Manjoume replied, his arms crossed. Because the concept of ‘personal space’ meant nothing to an Ojama, the five spirits had shoved themselves into the slight gaps between his elbows and his fingers, Ojama Yellow’s snot bubble approaching the size of his head while Ojama Red, constantly wiggling, threw clumsy punches at a dream opponent. In the front seat, Misako drove with one hand by her ear, adjusting her headset as she negotiated his fee for a public appearance.

Judai hummed to himself for a moment, the wings of Winged Kuriboh unfurling, covering his face, before they slowly pulled back.

“During those two years with Bell and the others, I wasn’t always losing control of myself,” Judai observed, his expression unchanged, and the city continued to shift around them, the thrown shadows in blues and greys. “There were good and bad days, so I think that made it easier to ignore, at least until the blackouts started.” A flicker of Yubel, a protective curl of dark grey. Judai’s eyes, clear and human, were locked on the passing city. “I put everyone through a lot during that time, and there are some apologies I still need to make, especially to Sho and Johan.”

“You should do that,” Manjoume said, and he waited for Judai next, his nails digging into his sleeves.

Eventually, the sky streaked with growing clouds, the city beginning to part and spread apart, Judai leaned back in his seat, and he looked at Manjoume then.

“It wasn’t an accident that I found you at the research center. I knew what was happening to me, even if I didn’t understand just how hard it would be to make it stop.” Slowly, Judai smiled, the one of the person who had returned from another dimension with a fused soul, cautious in a new way. “The first tournament I saw you at was in this rundown bar on the outskirts of Domino, and every round was a knock-out round. The matchups were rigged, and Yubel was pretty sure that the whole thing was a front for an underground duel league. The bosses would approach any duelists knocked out early and try to recruit them, and, well, I’ll just say that a friend-of-friend had gotten involved.”

That description could have applied to a hundred different unsanctioned areas, all with the sour smell of cheap alcohol. Judai ran a hand down Winged Kuriboh’s back, the spirit letting out a soft ‘coo’.

“When I saw your name on the entrant’s list, I thought that someone was trying to impersonate Manjoume Thunder. But that wasn’t the case at all,” Judai said, and he drew back when Winged Kuriboh, with a lasting sigh, dozed off, its green-scales paws clutching at the fabric of his jacket. “It really was you. No one else would’ve used a deck like that, Ojamas mixed with low-level beast monsters for support and A-to-Z fusions.  The tournament organizers put you against underground duelists with anti-fusion and counter-heavy decks. I mean, I don’t think I’ve seen _anyone_ use so many copies of Anti-Fusion Arena before, same with Anti-Fusion Device.”

It sounded like that series of duels from less than a month after his first agency had dropped him. But, _still_ , the details of them were gone, completely _gone_ , and yet Judai still continued in that same controlled way, his smile constant.

It was overwhelming.

“Because it combined those different archetypes,” Judai explained, drumming his fingers on his arm, “your deck was low on counter-traps and quick-play spell cards, but that didn’t matter at all. Your timing was perfect. You were five rounds in, and then the energy in that place changed, the crowd recognizing just what kind of duelist you were, and…” A slight pause, his smile brighter than before. “Ah, I was going to break up that tournament with Yubel, but then I just couldn’t. I had to see the end.”

“You were…” Manjoume tried again, breathing in slowly. “You…really were there.”

Yes, _right_. The musty, damp interior. The cigarette smoke that had gathered by the yellowing ceiling, strips of old posters decaying on the patched-over walls. Of _course_ those matches had been rigged, the crowd disinterested and sparse as he had strode below the dim lights and straightened his shoulders. The referees had golden pendants like those of his opponents. The paint on his custom-ordered duel disk had been chipped, and he had filled the gaps in that morning with a black marker.

He had lost in the tenth round. The prize money had barely covered his rent.

“The Ojama brothers found me in the crowd, but…” Judai shrugged, and Manjoume grimaced down at the ugly set of creatures latched onto him, Ojama Black drooling on Ojama Green. Ojama Yellow’s snot bubble had popped.

“I hope you’ve learned by now never to trust the short-term memory of an Ojama,” Manjoume mumbled as Ojama Red, eyes firmly shut, threw an arm to the side in a limp uppercut, his other arm flailing out and connecting an elbow with Ojama Blue’s stomach. Sighing as he looked away, Manjoume considered the merits of a Kuriboh-focused deck, the quiet spirit curled in a ball by Judai’s neck.

The merits had nothing to do with any of the Kuriboh monsters’ effects.

“So,” he said, causing Judai to glance over, “it’s not a coincidence that place was shut down after the tournament. It shouldn’t take a genius to connect the dots, especially not when _you’re_ involved.”

A chuckle, and then Judai shook his head. “Ah, so Detective Thunder makes his grand return…”

“Whatever. Get to the point.”

“…What point?”

Manjoume resisted the sudden temptation to smash his head against the window. “Why _exactly_ are you telling me this?”

Misako would take the next exit, and she had pulled into the right lane. Manjoume waited, aware of the focus that underlined everything Judai did. Winged Kuriboh slept. Judai’s bag was at his feet, a passport in his front pocket.

“I knew I was getting worse. I was losing entire days. I…had started to forget things,” he explained, a red light trailing his profile for a fraction of a second, shuttered by the next building. “Still, I kept thinking about seeing you in that place, meeting every attack, and… I really should’ve dueled you then. I would have understood everything after a single turn.”

“Judai, that wasn’t the only time you’ve watched me duel.”

“The Ojama brothers make for pretty good scouts, but I think you’re right about their short-term memories.”

It was a confirmation, given with that same open expression, and Manjoume had to look away, his mind spinning, trying to sort through the pieces. “I… I see.”

“You’re not going to scold them later, are you?”

“Is that a serious question?”

Judai laughed. “Hey, go easy on them.”

“…Why?”

And, like that, Judai changed the subject, tilting his head to the side. A length of bronze chain banded the back of his neck, traced by a patch of sunburn and light freckles. “Manjoume, when I saw you at the research center, I knew it had to be you. I should have told you everything at that moment, but I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

“I… I get it. It’s over, so don’t be…” He made a useless hand gesture, his teeth clenched.

And yet Judai understood, responding with a quick nod.

It was followed by a kiss, Judai’s chapped lips brushing the peaks of his knuckles, and his chest hollowed out when Judai met his eyes, focused and piercing. Ahead were the rigid lines of the international terminal, and Manjoume took his hand back slowly, his fingers curling in, while Judai watched, that smirk like a challenge, sharp at the edges. “Although, the timing here is less than perfect, isn’t it?”

“Y-You’re the one who started this conversation,” Manjoume snapped, and Judai raised his eyebrows, as if _that_ had been an unexpected response. But the game had turned into one with low stakes, just rivals slamming down pieces to get a reaction. It could be continued later, in fifteen days when their paths would cross in Fortunis again, and Manjoume shouted at Judai to charge his damn phone as he lifted his bag onto his shoulder, that familiar gesture given with one hand.

Gotcha.

\---


	21. Metamorphosis

\---

Although, Manjoume -- navigating through a series of hallways, cramped backstage areas, and media vans between his schedules -- quickly developed a habit of swearing at his phone after Judai took it as a personal mission to send him beach photo after beach photo, which _did_ raise the question of what exactly Industrial Illusions was up to in Australia. Or Hawaii.

Or wherever _else_ had white-sand beaches with overhanging trees, clear water, and sun-bleached driftwood set at perfect angles to frame the water. Damn it all.

“I need a vacation,” he declared, swiping away from yet-another photo of a sandy footprint, and Misako looked up from her phone with a pinched expression. A beat, and then she looked back down, the van swinging as it took another corner.

The parts were moving for his upcoming duel with Sho, the date set later than the one purposed originally for the sake of marketing and building anticipation, not that the public’s interest needed much work from either one of their agencies. Sho’s messages were the usual mixture of bad attempts at intimidation, random images of baby animals, and questions about Judai, which he deftly ignored. Manjoume Thunder, the greatest duelist of his generation, as proclaimed by _several_ duel analysts, did not play ‘messenger’ for Marufuji Sho, someone prone mooching food off other people and crying at pop ballads. The tabs of his browser were divided between articles on upcoming duels, articles on himself, and listings for apartments in Domino City, given that he found himself in that city on a regular basis.

Last night Judai had forwarded him a message on the new research center being established next to Domino University, and _maybe_ that was another factor.

“That’s…a lot of zeroes,” Ojama Yellow squeaked, his eyestalks pressed to Manjoume’s screen.

“Why does that surprise you?” Manjoume asked. When he angled the phone away, Ojama Yellow promptly lost his balance, tumbled through the air, and smacked into Ojama Black. A pointless argument ensued, and Manjoume had scrolled through another listing by the time Ojama Yellow floated back, his briefs pulled up to his armpits.

“Uhh… Dunno? But, Boss, what about your other place? Like, where all the other spirits hang out?”

“Believe it or not, I can afford two apartments. I _am_ a revered professional duelist, in case you’ve somehow forgotten that,” Manjoume retorted, and Ojama Green jeered at his brother.

“Yeah, _Yellow_. Try remembering how cool our boss is.”

“…Eh?! I-I haven’t-”

Manjoume’s phone rang.

“Tenjouin, it’s been awhile.”

A brief silence, and then Asuka exhaled loudly. “…I knew this number looked familiar. One second.” The sound cut out.

Next was a request for a video call, and, arching an eyebrow, Manjoume accepted it.

Judging by the angle, Asuka was standing in front of a wall-mounted videoscreen, an empty classroom behind her, the chairs and desks in a rigid, neat formation. Her blond hair was tucked behind her ears, and she wore a loose, boat-neck sweater in white and blue, the hem tucked into a high-waisted black skirt. A lanyard hung around her neck, and it swung when she stepped back and crossed her arms with a deep sigh.

“So, so future reference, when Judai leaves me the number of a duel spirit expert, it's probably _your_ number. No wonder he was laughing like that.” She flipped one hand, revealing the number scrawled over her palm in blue ink.

“Should I be insulted that you didn’t remember _my_ number?” Manjoume replied, which earned him an amused look from Asuka.

“Call it a comedy of errors. I wrote the number down here because I wanted to use the on-campus video equipment for a better first impression with this ‘spirit expert’. Although,” she added, “I _could’ve_ still entered it into my phone. I’m not sure why I didn’t, honestly.”

“Maybe all that studying has rotted her brain,” Ojama Yellow exclaimed, and Manjoume’s glare had the intended effect.

Reliable, steadfast, Tenjouin Asuka had always been a direct person, and that showed through her voice, its tone even, controlled. “Manjoume, I know you’re busy, but I would like to discuss something important with you. Do you have time?”

“Currently, I’m stuck in traffic. Even professional duelists of _my_ stature have to endure such things.”

Undeterred, she continued with the maintained, strong focus that structured her duels, magnetic in a different way than the echo of Plasma or the draw of Yubel. “I wanted to ask you about communicating with a low-attack, low-level spirit like Cyber Idol.”

“‘Cyber Idol’?” he repeated. No official card had that name.

He watched as Asuka walked across the room and checked the lock on the door before returning to her place in front of the videoscreen. Then she reached for her deck holster, clipped behind her back and sealed with a magnetic clasp. The card she held up was not the faded, creased piece of cardboard with the face of a Cyber Girl scrawled on it, but rather an official Duel Monsters card, its border the orange of an effect monster.

“Dr. Sullivan and the other researchers at Industrial Illusions were worried about how Cyber Idol would adapt with me, since I can’t see the spirits like Judai or yourself, Manjoume. They suggested that a proper card might help her remain in this world,” she said, rotating the it towards herself. “Pegasus completed the new portrait and wrote the effect text. Because of that, this is an official Duel Monsters card, compatible with duel disks and registered dueling systems. In November, I met with Judai at the research center, and he transferred her spirit from the old card to the new one.”

“I see,” Manjoume muttered. “I see that Judai _forgot_ to tell me about any of this.”

Asuka was quick. “To be fair, the researchers didn’t want us to tell anyone else about the existence of this card, since it’s not being released to the public. The only exception was for other duel spirit experts.”

“Right, so I’m an _exception_.” Manjoume pushed his bangs back, and then he reached for his coffee. “Whatever. I take it that you have a question about this Cyber Idol?”

Nodding, she glanced down at the card, her features softening. Asuka, he knew, felt the pain of others deeply. “It’s…probably nothing, but I have to be sure that I’m helping her in some way. I’ve never done this before, and…” She broke off, shaking her head. “What can I do to help her? How can we trust each other?”

The card art flashed as she rotated the card again -- a pale girl in a white-on-blue dress, grey gloves, and flower-like petals that formed a thin, red mask. Her heels were blue and threaded with red ribbons. The microphone was in gold, the colour repeated in the choker she wore.

“Low-attack spirits can be nervous around strangers,” he explained while the Ojama brothers piled into his lap, some shoving involved. “Most of my monster cards stay in my apartment for a reason.”

“Oh. I…hadn’t considered that.”

“Why would you? You’re a Cyber duelist. Ritual summoning is the key to your deck, and that process _usually_ results in a strong monster that can fend for itself. Your lowest-attack Cyber Girl is Cyber Gymnast at 800 attack points, but her effect compensates for that easily, meaning she doesn’t need to be heavily protected when summoned like Ojama Yellow would. Cyber Tutu even _benefits_ when you put her against high-attack monsters.”

“You’re correct. Next would be Etoile Cyber, but she gains attack points due to her effect.”

“Right, but… Listen, you can’t think of Cyber Idol like you would any of the other Cyber Girls or the Cyber Angels. If I’m reading this correctly,” he added, ignoring how Ojama Blue and Ojama Red rammed their hands over his phone, whining about _something_ , “then you can add a copy of Machine Angel Ritual and a Cyber Girl monster with a different name to your hand from your deck or graveyard when Cyber Idol is successfully summoned to your side of the field in attack position.”

“Yes.”

He had her complete attention. “The text of a card is never an accident,” Manjoume stated. “It reflects how duel spirits act in some way. Your Cyber Idol knows she’s in danger whenever you try to bring her to your side of the field. An opponent would want to counter that summon. More than that, her low attack points make her an easy target.”

“I understand.”

“Well then, naturally you _also_ understand that this world isn’t exactly kind to a duel spirit like that. You asked for my advice, Tenjouin. Find somewhere secure for her card in your apartment and leave it there. She’ll know where you’re nearby, and that’s enough for now.”

Asuka did not respond, her stare set on the thin card.

“Your deck also complicates things,” Manjoume said next, and Asuka, a strategist in her own right, narrowed her eyes. “Low-attack monsters tend to group up, and your deck doesn’t leave many options. If Cyber Idol needs time to adjust to _you_ as a duelist, then it’s the same for your deck. Don’t store it next to her card at first, and maybe try leaving Cyber Petit Angel on top. It sounds stupid, but it might help those spirits get used to each other.”

“You know that from experience?”

“…Sort of,” he muttered, although the Ojamas and Light and Darkness Dragon _still_ didn’t get along, the zero-attack idiots weirdly jealous of the effect monster and prone to throwing tiny, ineffective slaps at its scales.

A pause, and then Asuka removed her lanyard, shoved her student ID and a bus pass out of the plastic case, and, with careful hands, placed Cyber Idol between them before sliding all three cards inside. “I can transport her like this until I’m back home,” she said, and Manjoume nodded. “But, if I’m honest, I hope she can come outside with me and the other cards again.”

“That takes time.”

“How long?”

He shrugged. “The Unhappy Maiden and Dreamsprite don’t like to leave the apartment for more than a day. Some are fine with being in my main deck for a few tournaments.”

“Blade Rabbit,” Ojama Yellow piped up, “is a total attention hog.”

Manjoume ignored that.

“I’ve been pushing her too hard, haven’t I?” was what Asuka said next, and she clutched the plastic case to her chest, her deck holster held loose with the other hand. “That’s…so foolish of me. Everything you said makes perfect sense, but I missed all the signs.”

“Tenjouin, don’t-”

“But I can fix this.” She straightened, raising her bowed head. “I swore that I would protect her. I’m not prideful enough that I would ignore those precious things, and thank you, Manjoume. Thank you from all of us.”

Praise from Tenjouin Asuka, staggeringly beautiful when she showed him an honest smile, made him turn away and find something outside the window to glare at, maybe that crooked street sign or an advertisement for a new curry place. “Just _tell_ me the next time Judai drags you into some weird meeting with a bunch of scientists.”

Much to the chagrin of Pegasus’s researchers, the world of Duel Monsters was both vast and contradictory, even simple interactions between duelists and cards resulting in absolute, unrestrained frustration from lauded experts in their respective fields. After a video call with Johan, Manjoume had, unthinking, turned to Dr. Krenshaw and mentioned -- _‘complained’_ being the word the Ojamas used when retelling the story -- that Ruby Carbuncle had yawned throughout the entire conversation, which led to her immediate question of, “Manjoume, can you see duel spirits through a videoscreen?”

Yes, he could, but explaining _why_ was impossible. Or, at the very least, it had earned him more confused frowns than necessary from Pegasus’s researchers, one of whom had _helpfully_ suggested drilling a hole into his head to collect brain tissue for an experiment. Manjoume Thunder had his limits, and anything involving a drill to his skull went shooting over them.

The Cyber Angels were flares of gold and silver over Asuka, like lights over the ripples of moving water, but they could reveal themselves if they chose to. Benten’s red fans would part the air if Asuka was cornered, a warning sign when they dueled of the latent power still in her deck, waiting for the chance to strike him down. The Cyber Girls sometimes trailed Asuka’s steps when she walked, laughing to each other with only fond eyes for their controller. Cyber Tutu would alternate between swinging back onto the balls of her feet, her hands clasped behind her back, and raising up onto her toes, flitting between the ribbons and weapons of the other spirits with careless, fluid ease and ringing laughter.

Before the call ended, he noticed a twist in the space behind Asuka -- slight enough that it could be missed, like mist spreading over a plane of glass. But something wanted to emerge from it, peeling back the layers of their reality carefully, in measured steps unlike the sudden barge of an Ojama or the smooth, languid leap of a Crystal Beast.

A gloved hand. A bright-coloured mask, and a small spirit waved to him before drifting away, her last expression, a shy grin, turned towards her controller.

\---

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [22:56]: so youve found time between taking pictures of sand to prank asuka. thats an impressive amount of multitasking from you.**

**Yuki Judai [22:57]: is this your way of asking for more photos….?**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [22:57]: absolutely not**

**Yuki Judai [22:57]: Attachment_Photo0836…**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [22:57]: stop it or im blocking you**

**Yuki Judai [22:57]: one secc**

**Yuki Judai is chilling @ the beach [23:03]: like it?**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [23:03]: just when i thought you couldnt get more annoying**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [23:03]: you found a way**

**Yuki Judai is chilling @ the beach [23:05]: miss you too :***

\---

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [04:15]: what exactly are you doing for pegasus anyways?**

**Yuki Judai is getting a sweet tan [05:48]: picking out the location for his new beach house**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [05:52]: why did i expect an actual answer from YOU?**

**Yuki Judai is getting a sweet tan [05:48]: dr krenshaw is trying to expand the department. a lot of talking to people**

**Yuki Judai is getting a sweet tan [05:49]: yubels only thought about setting someone on fire once**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [05:57]: i have no idea if thats a joke or not**

**Yuki Judai is getting a sweet tan [05:57]: yubel says hi btw**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [05:58]: is that really necessary?**

**Yuki Judai is getting a sweet tan [05:58]: one sec**

**Yuki Judai is getting a sweet tan [06:03]: It's just basic etiquette, my dear Thunder. You should know that considering your line of work.**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [06:03]: hey freeloader put judai back on**

**Yuki Judai is getting a sweet tan [06:04]: This keypad is annoying… How about a videocall? <3**

**Yuki Judai is getting a sweet tan [06:12]: Ah… I scared him off!**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [06:13]: if judai gets a sunburn, will you suffer as well?**

**Yuki Judai is getting a sweet tan [06:13]: Possibly.**

**Yuki Judai is getting a sweet tan [06:13]: I'm flattered that you're thinking of me, my dear...**

\---

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [12:09]: my flight is tomorrow at 3**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [12:09]: did yours change?**

**Yuki Judai is getting a sweet tan [17:40]: no. should be sunday so one day after u**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [17:41]: try not to miss it**

**Yuki Judai is getting a sweet tan [17:41]: i wont~**

\---

Jerking open the door to his Fortunis apartment with more force than necessary, Manjoume kicked the two waiting packages into the living room, and the stack of envelopes followed seconds later, spilling over the floor. Next, he dropped his messenger bag, and he made it to the couch just as the low-attack spirits descended -- cheering, roaring, and banging their paws and hands together in an entirely unnecessary 'Welcome Home' ceremony. The Ojamas had brought streamers, the excess confetti spreading over every available surface, and, face-down on the cushions, Manjoume confirmed that, yes, his body was still stuck on a different timezone, the obnoxiously bright sky the opposite of what it should be.

The grey bomber jacket flung over the armrest was Judai's, and when he woke up, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, his fingers were curled in the sleeve, caught in a rip along the seam. Black threads were tethered through the burst lining.

“Congratulations on your victory over your opponent,” Dreamsprite whispered by his ear, her amber-red hair falling over her shoulders, and her composite wings beat as she moved away, a ring of flowers around her blue neck. “Please know that all of us supported you in our own way.”

“M-Maybe some of us, ah, floated into the upstairs apartment to watch the highlights of the match,” Petit Angel squeaked.

“Isn't that, like, trespassing?” Ojama Yellow chided, as if _he_ and other Ojamas weren't shoving their heads into that upstairs apartment whenever Manjoume refused to turn on the television for them. There was a clear limit to how many crime dramas and romantic comedies he could take, especially with the added torture of the Ojamas’ commentary.

“Uhh….” Petit Angel waggled its tiny arms, its cheeks puffed out in thought. “I… Hmmm. But it's not like humans can see us normally, so….?”

For an unknown reason, Ojama Yellow had shoved a party blower up his nose, and it made a strained noise as he crossed his bare arms and said, “Yeah, humans are pretty dumb, except for our boss, of course.”

Batting his ace monster away, Manjoume propped himself up on his elbows, the jacket sliding off him. In the two hours that he had been out, Sho had sent him four articles predicting that “the New Kaiser would topple Manjoume Thunder before the fifth turn”, and Manjoume clicked the screen off with a scoff, shaking his head.

The pressure had changed from the gauntlet of interviews, appearances, and articles leading up to his duel against Edo. When he sat up, he passed a hand down his forehead.

Sho's refined Cyber Art dueling would be a challenge, especially with the announcement of the Cyber Art Duel League approaching. With an overwhelming power, the cybernetic fusion monsters had cleaved through his life points before, Sho quick to dismantle his defenses with a burst of white-blue energy that had crackled in the air. During the twelve-hour flight, he had watched those moments again and again, assessing every card played while the Ojamas climbed over the seats and babbled to each other like small birds.

“Congratulations again,” Dreamsprite murmured before flying higher, and Manjoume put his phone down on his chest and stared at the ceiling. The spirits from the Reject Well filled the apartment, wings and paws phasing through the ceiling light as they circled.

The shards of some brittle dream had come together.

After rubbing his eyes, he shot off the couch and strode across the living room. In the kitchen, he dug a pair of scissors out of the nearest drawer, a group of beast-type spirits following his steps with barks and yowls. One of the packages was for him, a shipment of his upcoming merchandise line, and he spilled the contents over the dining table -- clothes, lanyards, card sleeves, plush toys, stickers, phone cases, and charms, in addition to whatever else was under the blue-yellow pile, a key ring clacking as it hit the table's surface. Everything bore his insignia. Ojama Yellow gave a toothy grin from the front of a t-shirt, boney fingers in a victory sign.

“Ah, they didn't quite capture my…” Ojama Yellow paused, his mouth puckered. “My… My _essence_.”

Manjoume raised an eyebrow. “Your _what_?”

“Like, you know. My inner nature. My being.”

“I can have the designers add more snot to your face, if _that's_ what you mean,” Manjoume said as he folded the shirt in half, and, predictable as always, Ojama Yellow latched onto his arm and pouted up at him.

“W-Wait a sec, Boss. D-Don't do it!”

“Why not?”

“B-Because! I have so many adoring fans!”

“If you're lucky, I'll reconsider,” Manjoume mumbled, and he poked at an Ojama Blue plush toy, it rolling away with a loud squeak. Very realistic.

“So… Uh… What's with this other box? Oh, hey! Let's open it too! Is it more Thunder stuff?”

Manjoume stood up and put the scissors away. “Check the address. It's for Judai.”

“Ju-dai…?” Ojama Yellow pronounced the name slowly, the wrinkles between his eyebrows creasing. “But, like, he's with you, Boss. So…you can open it, right?”

Etiquette was a foreign concept to the Ojamas, and Ojama Yellow proved that by, summarily, sticking his head through the sealed box, his feet wiggling in mid-air. “Uhh… It's too dark in here!”

For the thousandth time, Manjoume slapped a palm over his face at a display of Ojama ingenuity, and even the Dark Scorpions -- who had, if he followed the meandering gossip of Catnipped Kitty correctly, taken over the top shelf of his safe for their new hideout -- floated over with jeering comments for the little Ojama spirit.

“H-Hey! I-It could've worked!”

No, it couldn't have, and Manjoume heaved a deep sigh. “Yellow, it doesn’t matter how low my expectations are. You still manage to… _defy_ them…”

“Uhh… Thanks?”

Because he was in danger of losing brain cells, Manjoume let the chatter slip out of his head, which gave him nothing _else_ to do but stare at that box addressed to Judai in stiff, block letters. The box had originally been for a cat house, and that alone gave away where it had come from, as did the orange-brown fur caught in the packing tape.

Kenzan's return address was unnecessary. The postage stamps were of dinosaurs, and anything _else_ would've been strange, as if the duelist had been brainwashed or kidnapped. Or something.

And yet that damn _box_ kept getting in the way, almost tripping him as he paced the room during a conference call with his agency’s senior staff. It was heavy, _ridiculously_ heavy, and he caught himself staring at it with an annoying frequency, to the point that he was strongly tempted to throw his trench coat over it. Or shove it onto the balcony.

Or _off_ the balcony. Every stress-mark on the cardboard stood out like a clue.

That Kenzan had mailed Judai a bundle of dinosaur bones was, unfortunately, extremely likely, and Manjoume scowled at the box as he clicked his screen off. Artifacts with ancient powers were another possibility.

“It won’t be something normal, not when Judai’s involved,” he muttered to himself, raking a hand through his bangs. “It…can’t just be cards, since those would make the box even heavier, or…” He crouched down. The corners were clumsily taped-over to seal the box, close to bursting. “Books? Maybe some of those, but…”

Tapping a finger against his chin, he considered the available information with the precision of a master duelist, his counters for Sho replaced with the dimensions of the box. There was also the matter of the address, that of _his_ apartment. Perhaps Judai had told Kenzan of their relationship. Or Sho.

Or any number of the loose-mouthed idiots that Manjoume had the misfortune of being stranded on Academy Island with, Asuka one of the few exceptions. With a marker, a pawprint had been added below Kenzan’s address, as if Pharaoh’s shed hair _hadn’t_ been enough of a clue. The box even carried with it that pungent, almost sour smell of canned pet meals.

Maybe this was part of some elaborate revenge plan by Kenzan for being stuck with a smelly housecat prone to leaving hairballs in people’s beds and yowling in the middle of the night, not to mention the disembodied professor who was dragged everywhere Pharaoh went. And, even though the travel-dented mystery lying at his feet was an annoyance, Manjoume knew that he had been spared the greater misery of being sent the _actual_ Pharaoh, which would have left him brushing off fleas and cleaning up hairballs while trying to ignore a lecture on the alchemic elements or the chemical properties of quicksilver or _whatever_.

The Ojamas already gave him enough to deal with, not to mention Judai.

“Uh… Boss?”

When he glanced over his shoulder, there was Ojama Yellow, scratching his stomach and burping. “...What?”

“Why don't yah, like, call that Judai guy?”

Manjoume frowned. Just the _thought_ was enough to make Yubel's mocking cackle bounce around his head. The obvious problem was that he would be left asking Yuki Judai a straightforward question.

“Try paying more attention in the future,” Manjoume said as he rolled his jacket over his shoulders, drawing in curious stares from the spirits bobbing overhead. “What? I have a meeting.”

Petit Angel answered, its thin voice squeaking over the clumsy beats of its wings. “But can't you do that here? With your phone?”

“...Why are you asking me that?” Manjoume replied, adjusting his collar, and Petit Angel wobbled in the air, its wide mouth set in a low frown.

“W-Well, you haven't opened the box yet, so…?”

“So _what_?”

“Ah! Thunder, tell us! What's in it?!”

And the others, enough to fill the apartment, joined in with yowls and shouts.

“ _Meow! Meow meow!_ ”

“Please, Manjoume-sama!!”

“What’s in that damn box?!”

“Y-You can't just _leave_ without showing us! It's not fair!”

“Pleeeeeeease?”

Manjoume felt something in his forehead twitch, and he heaved another deep sigh. “Well, I've wanted to buy a paper shredder for a while now, and you damn freeloaders are giving me an even better reason to. It would help with the _noise_ , wouldn't it?”

Ojama Yellow went pale, the brothers joining in as he wailed. “B-Boss! No!!”

“Maybe I'll bring home a surprise for all of you,” Manjoume muttered, and he received a series of watery-eyed pouts from the Ojamas. The low-attack spirits, chattering to each other, had returned to the subject of the box, their voices rising as he closed the door and strode down the hallway, his head tilted back. Clasped to his hip, his studded deck holster clicked with every step, a rhythmic sound.

By the time the corporate car reached the edge of the manicured lawn that led to the sprawl of the West Research Center, the Ojamas had concluded that, in a bizarre twist, Judai had mailed _himself_ from Kenzan's place, a declaration that made Manjoume's thoughts on Cyber Dragons, Vehicroids, and a certain New Kaiser all come to a sudden, stupefying stop, his latest strategy, involving machine and dragon counters, dropping away as he blinked at the back of the driver's seat.

Maybe the Ojamas were secretly working for Sho. It would explain a lot.

As always, the ground-level entrance of the research center was a testament to Pegasus's warped aesthetic, stone walls draped with scarlet-white tapestries juxtaposed by sleek, modern fixtures and gold-accented furniture. At least five meters in length, an enormous oil painting of the president rose over the statue of Gaia, the lance he held polished until it shone. Vestiges of the Toon Monsters’ influence on Pegasus showed, adding the elements of a hyper-coloured, cartoon-fueled fever dream to the massive hall. The peaked ceiling was supported by gilded pillars and wreathed by sets of armor. Banners poured down from its exposed beams. Through the far doors, past the cafe, the hedges of a garden maze rose, a uniform and dense green.

The upper levels of the building, restrained and clinical, were in a strong contrast to this space, as was the pure white of Dr. Krenshaw's lab coat, shirt, and hair. She waited for him in her usual way, her head bent over a bubble-gum pink clipboard with a winking Funny Bunny logo stamped at the top, mirrored by the ever-present pin on her lapel. Heavy, the pin dragged on her coat and made its lines uneven.

After tucking the clipboard under one arm, she greeted him with a slight nod. “Congratulations, Manjoume.”

“I can say the same to you,” he began. “Apparently your department has expanded, although I _should_ say that Yuki Judai isn't the ideal person for doing job interviews. He probably just duels everyone you're sending him after.”

“His methodology is irrelevant,” she replied, matching his steps towards the elevator. “In matters related to duel spirits, Judai has the gift of intuition. I have placed my trust in him for that reason.”

“You might regret that,” Manjoume mumbled, and the doors slid shut, the walls panels of glass. “More importantly, why are we talking about _Judai_? I’m right here! A prodigy in my own right!”

Dr. Krenshaw glanced over at him, but Ojama Yellow was the one who interrupted with a low whine. “Uhh… Boss? Didn’t you, uh, bring up Judai first…?”

“Shut it!” he snapped, and Ojama Yellow, mouth hanging open, tried to process that response.

“...Huh? Boss? Did...I say something wrong?”

“Obviously,” he muttered back.

When the doors opened, he let Dr. Krenshaw lead him to her office, the chatter behind him, _somehow_ , circling back to the topic of the package from Kenzan, Ojama Red vibrating with repressed energy as he rambled through another theory while Ojama Blue gaped at him.

Ojamas.

What a pain.

“I take it you’re communicating with your spirit partners right now?” Dr. Krenshaw asked after she had sat down, the surface of her desk strewn with papers and overlapping sticky notes. A Toon Mermaid paperweight held down a stack of forms, her looping signature on the bottom of the top page, and Manjoume scoffed at the question. Unseen by her, Ojama Green and Black had crawled into his jacket, the others flopping onto the desk.

“Unfortunately,” Manjoume said, which earned him the quirk of a short eyebrow. She continued in the same level voice.

“We’ve discussed this before, but you’re also capable of interacting with the spirit partners of other duelists, even outside of a duel. Naturally, Judai has the same ability, and he seems to adapt quickly to the personalities and quirks of other spirits.” Steepling her fingers, she rolled the chair back, her expression unmoving. “Try to see it from my perspective. While I oversee the direction of this department’s research and the personnel involved, I cannot interact with duel spirits myself, neither can the majority of my staff. Moreover, the simple fact of the matter is that duelists like yourself, Johan, and Judai, who have a clear affinity for both noticing and interacting with the duel spirits of others, are exceptionally rare. If Industrial Illusions is going to pursue its goals of defining the connections between the spirit world, duel spirits, and duelists, then it’s necessary to locate more of these select individuals, and who could be better for that task than someone with those same abilities?”

Narrowing his eyes, Manjoume considered his response. The Ojamas, bored, had passed out during her explanation, Ojama Yellow hanging off the desk and snoring. “Many duelists can only see their own monsters.”

“It’s the same for most of the duelists in our program, which may explain why their individual results aren’t as promising as your own,” she replied, inclining her head. “Nevertheless, the initial results of our research are encouraging, which explains why we’re being given the opportunity to expand. The president himself recognizes the continued importance of monitoring the spirit world, the dimensional barrier, and the changing bonds between duelists, all of which can have serious ramifications for our way of life.”

“...Right.” Again, Manjoume paused. He tapped his fingers against his arm. “I should thank you for your diligence, Dr. Krenshaw. I volunteered for your project because my monster cards are my own, and I won’t allow for anyone or anything to break us apart, no matter what this future holds. If you need something from me, tell me. I know what my strengths are.”

The snores continued, light like the rasp of branches against a window, like that of low waves against a shore. Her response was given immediately, and it reflected a calculating mind, her gaze steeled behind the peaked shape of her bone-thin fingers.

“The actions of careless duelists can weaken the divide between our worlds, as can those of powerful spirits and beings still unknown to us. Perhaps they are unknowable to us, at least in their true forms.” And, even though she was a full head shorter than him, she towered over the desk when she raised herself from the chair, turning to look out the window bordered by framed photographs and taped-on schedules, all scrawled with the same slanted handwriting. “While I would never describe our company’s motivations as purely altruistic, the continued indifference of humanity towards the true nature of Duel Monsters and the powers conveyed by its cards is, in my opinion, misguided, and that same indifference could all of us to ruin. It could be from the return of Darkness, or maybe from the awakening of an older power. Public spectacles like Duel Monsters Spirit Day or our own program’s attempts at outreach only gain surface-level interest in the subject of duel spirits, if any lasting impact is made at all.” She paused, her hands folded behind her back. “Recently, archaeologists have uncovered ancient tablets that write of the very universe’s beginning and end as dependent on the activation of a single card, powerful enough to rewrite the fabric of our existence. Some level of skepticism regarding such topics is, of course, necessary, but…”

“Our cards are powerful. Therefore, it’s…possible for such a card to exist,” Manjoume said, and he almost flinched when she pivoted, her gaze on him, the focus like a tangible force. They _should_ have been discussing his latest visits to Ojama Country, parsing the simple, small interactions between the spirits there, like Bell trotting after the Ojamas with her own chirps and clicks. Reddening dirt. A pale sky. “Look, my schedule starts at six tomorrow, so if you want to go over the finer details of the _apocalypse_ , then find someone else. I’m not interested.”

A subtle quirk of her thin lips, and she lowered herself back into her chair, the oversized Funny Bunny pin clacking against the watch that encircled her small wrist. “My apologies. Let’s just say that I had a rather, ah, _difficult_ conference call before our meeting today. Some of my colleagues can be stubborn. They cling to outdated theories because of their convenience, not their merit.”

“I know the type. Some duelists refuse to change their strategies out of pride. It’s pathetic.”

“‘Pathetic’ is too harsh,” she chided with a rare flash of humor. “It’s human nature to resist change, for better or worse.”

He watched as Ojama Yellow, stretching in his sleep, flopped off the desk and phased through his right boot. “Was...there anything else you wanted to discuss?”

“Aside from the apocalypse?”

“...What _exactly_ is your doctorate in anyways?”

A wave of one hand, and then she continued. “You’ll be pleased to hear that our assessment of Tenjouin Asuka is entirely positive, as the spirit she now houses seems to be stable. Dr. Sullivan had his doubts on allowing the spirit of Cyber Idol to remain with a duelist who cannot interact with it directly, but evidently Judai was right to believe in her. I also heard that you had a small role to play in this.”

He scoffed. “‘Small’ role? Who told you _that_?”

“You’re remarkably consistent, Manjoume.”

It was close enough to a compliment, and he took it with a slanted grin. “As a professional duelist, Manjoume Thunder never disappoints those who support him.”

“Ah, I see.” She clicked a pen twice, bouncing it off one palm. With a turned head, she trailed off for a moment, the rigid shape of her aquiline profile broken by a strand of long hair that had escaped her ponytail. Ojama Yellow snored even louder. “What happens over the course of this upcoming year could lead to the next advancement in interdimensional transportation. We could reach the next level of understanding in an instant. Manjoume, we owe much of this progress to you and your dedication to our program, not to mention the support of your Ojama spirits.”

He nodded, and, true to his persona, he jerked his chin up and said, “Tell Pegasus that I want a wing of this place named after me. Of course, I would settle for the exclusive sponsorship of Industrial Illusions for my next ten tournament appearances. An honour like that should not be refused so easily, don’t you agree?”

She clicked the pen again, and then the topic shifted to Ojama Country and its newest resident, a small spirit who had ran in clumsy circles around Judai the last time Manjoume had dragged him there, her striped tail twitching with every quick beep and chirp. The orange-dotted scarf around her shell had been stuffed with green herbs, purple-ended stalks of grass, and small flowers that drifted loose when she bobbed too quickly, her cat-yellow eyes shining.

Vibrating with concentration, she had chirped slowly when he had knelt by her side, the words simple enough that he could separate the syllables, the meanings nearer than they were before. When he had stood back up, wiping his hands on his knees even though the red dirt never stuck, Judai had been staring at him, something about that smile making his words unnecessary, unneeded in this place of bright sounds.

\---

The next morning, and Misako joined him in the back of a sleek, black car, her scarf patterned with branches of lightning to offset his dress shirt, a strong white against the all-black fabric of his chosen suit, his overcoat long enough to drag on the floor. Insider sources reported that Edo Phoenix would make his return after Thunder v New Kaiser, going so far as to change the composition of his deck to incorporate more dark-type monsters and counter traps. His suits would have a modern cut, favouring asymmetry and subtle patterns, like the brush of a coal-grey feather across his shoulders, and Manjoume, still blinking the sleep out of eyes, nodded at the designer sketches Misako showed him on her phone.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” she remarked, swiping to the next image, giving a better angle of the new deck holster commissioned for Edo. The clasp resembled a talon, the details in silver and black. “Everything complements the theme perfectly. The balance is…impeccable.”

“Oh? What about _me_?”

“Excuse me?”

Scowling, Manjoume threw an arm out, his other hand on his chest. “ _I_ am Manjoume Thunder, the one at the pinnacle of competitive dueling. If you’re going to compliment _anyone_ , it should be me.”

Misako gave him a pinched expression. “You repeat those phrases too frequently.”

“Well, they’re effective, aren’t they?”

“Not everything has to be a catchphrase, Thunder.”

“Tell that to Edo,” he retorted, turning on his screen and swiping to a new conversation window. “All that talk about ‘the world’s peak’ and ‘the burning flames of victory’… Seriously, who does he think he is?”

“According to the Pro League’s points system, he’s still ranked first in the world, which, as it should go without saying, is higher than your current rank,” Misako said. “He also maintained a thirty-month winning streak despite serious changes to the meta and an influx of new challengers.”

“Well, my winning streak will make his look like nothing.”

Edo’s personal profile had a neon-coloured tokusatsu hero as its icon, the bottom half of its mask covered with a ragged scarf.

At charity balls and formal dinners that had run until the early hours of the morning, Manjoume had watched Edo -- polished and refined in his mannerisms -- give perfect greetings to the powerful magnates of the dueling world only to, moments later, scroll through a website dedicated to some long-running hero franchise that Manjoume vaguely remembered having an action figure from with stiff joints, detachable weapons, and a siren that went off when a button on its chest was held down.

Somehow, it was easy to forget that Edo Phoenix, the crown prince of the dueling world, was also a massive nerd.

 

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [06:08]: youre enjoying this situation too much for someone who was just defeated**

**⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [06:09]: *absolutely defeated at the hands of manjoume thunder**

 

The reply came hours later, and, sorting his cards as they drove to his next appointment, Manjoume almost dropped his second copy of Ojama Yellow, resulting in a low squawk next to his ear and some very, _very_ unnecessary yelling from the other Ojamas. 

 

**PHOENIX [09:13]: why shouldnt i enjoy myself?**

**PHOENIX [09:13]: but perhaps it would wise for you to focus on your own position... overconfidence can be dangerous for a duelist, especially one like yourself who never keeps a win streak for very long.**

**PHOENIX [09:14]: whats your record again?**

 

“T-That arrogant…”

“Boss! B-Boss!” Ojama Yellow had latched onto his thumb, a hideous and _loud_ parasite. “D-Did you put my card back into your deck? Don’t take me out! Or… Uh.” The waterworks turned off when Ojama Yellow fell into a ‘thinker’ pose. “I mean, uh… Don’t take any _copies_ of me out! I need all the exposure I can get!”

“Get off me!” he barked, and that set off a series of chaotic, _moronic_ arguments with the Ojamas that ended with him, pointedly, grabbing at the loud-mouthed spirits and trying to shove them back into their cards, Misako watching with one penciled eyebrow arched in silent judgement.

They had arrived early to the studio, a brick-walled building that hooked around a small courtyard lined with thin trees, and Misako ushered him into a large office to greet the production company's president, senior staff, and crew, a standard procedure. The interviewer was Andrea Alconer, familiar to him from her tournament reports and their previous interviews, and she clasped his hand with an iron grip, something falcon-like about the sharp tilt of her head, her broad shoulders, and her hazel eyes, ringed with dark eyeshadow. She played a harpy lady deck at charity events, but she carried it with her even now, the compact holster inside her suit jacket. While Misako, her tone strict and formal, discussed the revised interview questions with the president, Andrea fell back until she stood at his side, the angle of head sliding her short, styled red hair out of place, the longest strands curling by her ears.

At its full potential, a harpy deck became a torrent for its opponent to endure, precious cards taken away by its devastating effects while monsters swarmed the field, grasping at dominance.

“An exclusive interview like this will get a lot of hits online. Your agency really is doing us a favour…” When Manjoume simply looked at her, she took the blunt approach instead, the equivalent of a declared direct attack. “So, what kind of person is he? A fast talker? Does he ramble? I take it that he knows the basics of this…?”

Manjoume snorted. “You'll see for yourself. Just stick to the script.”

“Hmm… A mystery, huh?” She rocked back. “Everyone loves a good mystery. Should be good for traffic, not to mention engagement.”

Approved by Judai, a winking emoji attached to that message, the interview would be filmed, edited for time, and then posted on the Victor's Choice dueling website, with some distribution guaranteed for their associated television networks. The courtyard outside the studio had the usual setup, the director adjusting the reflectors as an assistant shoved a potted plant away from the makeshift set, two cameras used for opposing angles. Behind Judai would be a brick wall patterned with ivy, shadows from the overhanging tree tracing the rough grooves between the bricks, and Manjoume frowned as Ojama Yellow, wringing his hands together, floated into his peripheral vision.

“S-So… Speaking about mysteries…”

The fucking box.

Last night, while he had sprawled across the couch and watched a repeat of Phoenix v Thunder, his phone vibrating with cheap insults and random questions from Sho, Manjoume had thrown his feet on-top of the box, as if _that_ would have helped him block out its existence. When their whispers distracted from the play-by-play of his glorious victory, Manjoume had considered throwing the loudest of the low-attack cards off the balcony.

Putting Ojama Yellow in a headlock would have been _just_ as satisfying, but Manjoume covered a cough instead, his sneer directed at the wall. Maybe the researchers at Industrial Illusions could come up with an Ojama Capture Jar or something. It would save him from many, many headaches.

When Judai arrived, Manjoume was signing a copy of Duelist Today for a starry-eyed crew member, a low wind rustling the leaves and drawing Judai's jacket open, the high collar creased at the corners. The sun had brought more colour to his angular face -- reds and golds, bright against the freckles at his jawline. Long bangs were pushed to one side, parting as he walked under a wrought-iron arch, his thumbs hooked in the belt of his faded jeans. The black turtleneck was new.

An assistant from his agency directed Judai towards the president, already extending a ringed hand, and Andrea was next. Her greeting was bold enough to make Judai laugh, ducking his head and running a hand over the back of his neck.

Dark, a sunburn banded the skin that passed under his palm. The loose jacket hung from the strong lines of his shoulders, and they rolled back when Judai, grinning, gave her a simple response. Yubel was a scatter of orange, a drift of something ethereal. Their scales ran down Judai's wrists like clear rain, the forked shapes spreading apart until, growing thin, they slipped out of reality.

“-and we'll get started after I film the intro,” Andrea explained. “Should be a simple shoot, so we might even wrap this up early.”

“If I was in charge, we'd just have a duel instead, but…” Judai's grin widened. “Maybe next time. A deck like mine would need its own special segment. Right, Manjoume?”

Unbelievable. “ _That_ is how you greet me?” Manjoume barked, tossing his head back. “Please, Judai. Put some effort into it, since I have taken the time out of my busy schedule to babysit you.”

“Psssst… Boss, didn't you want to be here?”

Shit.

After feigning a cough, Manjoume rammed his elbow through Ojama Yellow, who, _finally_ , popped away with a cloud of smoke. More clouds of smoke followed.

Once the greetings were done with, Andrea and her team wheeled away from them, and Manjoume watched them for a moment, aware of the person standing at his side. Angel-white feathers clipped through Judai's back when Winged Kuriboh landed on him.

“It looks like someone boiled you,” Manjoume said, which earned him a small laugh.

“Well, I feel more _fried_ than boiled, if you know what I mean.”

“Did you accomplish anything during your trip aside from annoying me?”

That grin angled higher, and Judai looked at him. “Ah, did you really miss me that badly? I'm touched.”

“Shut it.”

An enraged Manjoume Thunder should have been an intimidating opponent, but Judai only shrugged and replied with, “It's going to be hard to answer that question if I can't talk, right?” But, before Manjoume, twitching, could snap at him, Judai added, “Well, some of the duelists took to Dr. Krenshaw's offer, and some didn't. It's as simple as that.”

“You really are a master storyteller,” Manjoume observed, the sarcasm thick.

“Hmmm… Just wait until you hear about the cities I went to! Local tournaments, rare card shops… Although, the weather was a problem for the entire trip.”

Manjoume's 'Downloads’ folder was a testament to the fact that Yuki Judai was lying to him. It also made perfect goddamn sense that Judai had sent him so many text messages during those fifteen days, all teasing with white-sanded beaches. Evidently, Judai was powered by some warped desire to annoy other people.

“You can't be serious.”

“Yubel and I agreed that one thing was missing,” Judai began, and the turn was coming, something impish about his raised eyebrows, like a counter trap was about to be flipped and knock out Manjoume’s side of the proverbial field. But, _somehow_ , those next words caught him off guard, and Manjoume was left slapping a hand over his face while Judai leered and said, “Sure, the blue skies were great and all, but we both started to miss the sound of thunder.”

“W-What a… Y-You actually…” Fuck. _Fuck_ , and Manjoume kicked at him, hitting only air and forcing a squeak from Winged Kuriboh. His dress shirt would wrinkle if he tried to put Judai, that smirking _idiot_ , in a chokehold. “Your jokes have reached a new low, which I didn't know was _possible_ until now.”

“Ah, you’re blushing… That was a pretty smooth line, wasn’t it?” And, predictably, Judai laughed to himself. “Those long flights are good for something, as it turns out…”

“You should know better than to agitate _me_ of all people. I know where you’re sleeping tonight.”

“Is that a threat or-?”

“I-It’s a threat!”

Judai had the audacity to frown at him. No, not frown. _Pout_. “Oh. I…was kinda hoping you’d missed me a little more than that.”

“Keep dreaming, slacker.”

“Well, that means you’ll have to resist my charming personality,” Judai said next, ignoring the glare leveled at him. “Hmmm… Might be tough for you, Manjoume.”

“Yeah, right.”

And then the scene changed, the filming of the introduction over and moving on to the main event, which involved Yuki Judai standing in place, looking interested in Andrea’s scripted questions, and _not_ giving answers that would result in confusing headlines or headaches for Misako. Or himself.

Because it would not be aired live, the most difficult factors of an interview wouldn’t apply. For the interviewer to throw in an unverified question, hoping for a scandalous reaction, was more than just unlikely, especially with Misako -- emblematic of his agency and its newfound power -- shadowing the camera crew and clicking her acrylic nails off the case of her phone. Andrea's prediction that they would finish early was likely, given the experience of the crew and relatively simple task they had.

Well, _supposed_ to be simple.

“Stop moving. You're just making it take longer.”

With a sigh, Judai slumped over, and a quick-fingered assistant managed to attach his lavalier mic, the black wire matching the turtleneck. “Isn't the interviewer supposed to be the one with the microphone? Why do I get one too?”

“The director wants a casual atmosphere,” Manjoume said. “Having a microphone shoved in your face gives the wrong impression.”

“Huh. Okay.”

“You didn't read the brief, did you?”

“H-Hey, give me some credit!” A pause, and then Judai covered a guilty cringe with a fake cough, a bad one. “I let Yubel read it, therefore I read it too. Technically. ...Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Our souls are fused, so it counts.”

“No.”

“No?”

“ _No_ , it doesn't, and don't ignore your responsibilities simply because you’re too lazy to-”

But the appearance of more crew members distracted Manjoume from his current task of eviscerating one Yuki Judai with his flawless arguments. A younger version of this person had toppled strangers with bear hugs, given out high-fives for _any_ reason, and been far, _far_ more touchy-feely than the average duelist. Pieces of those gestures were still there, but Manjoume, grinding his back teeth, didn't miss how Judai bristled when a makeup artist shoved her brush at his temple. He jumped when an assistant flared out his collar, a routine action.

“I guess we're not asking for permission today?” Judai observed, and someone unknown straightened his jacket, moving fast as another makeup artist opened the bag at her waist.

Manjoume raised his voice. His gaze was steeled. “Hey, no amount of powder and hairspray is going to fix this mutt into something presentable, so just give up.”

A brief hesitation, but the crew switched their target to Andrea, who was caught in an intense conversation with Misako. Papers were gestured to. A rare forcefulness turned Misako's narrow face, and it was enough that Andrea, her opponent, dropped whatever the subject was.

Weird.

“Uh… Thanks for saving me there.”

“Don't mention it,” Manjoume said to Judai. He pushed his bangs into place, sticky gel clinging to the gaps between his bent fingers. “Let's get this over with as soon as possible. That means no retakes, so get it right the first time.”

“I'll give it my best shot.”

“Whatever _that_ means.”

Laughing a little, Judai glanced at him. “By the way, Kenzan says he sent me a parcel. Did it arrive okay? Me and the customs office don’t get along all that well.”

Manjoume considered his answer. “Uhh… Yeah. It's in the living room.” A nagging curiosity urged him to say more, but-

“Oh, cool. So, that means nothing broke…?”

It was official -- Judai _was_ powered by the annoyance of other people, which explained why he was the undisputed master of bringing out that emotion. Manjoume took a deep breath. No yelling. _No_ yelling.

“I didn't open it. All I can say is that a box for you arrived with Kenzan's address on it. Does that answer you _question_?”

Judai stared at him for a moment. The wind shifted his jacket’s collar. “Oh. You could've opened it.”

“What?”

Judai repeated himself. “You could've opened it. It was your apartment first, and, I mean, I don't really care either way.”

“...”

“Manjoume?”

“Give me a second,” he muttered, squeezing the space between his eyebrows and taking a deeper breath. Yesterday had been a gauntlet of Ojama-level theories and chattering low-attack spirits, every visible _millimeter_ of that taped-over cardboard analyzed with an excruciating level of detail. That morning, after he had hauled himself out of the shower and slapped at the kettle, the spirits had tried to drag him into a round-table discussion on the box's markings, which served as proof that the only thing that could unite a bunch of disjointed monster cards was a mystery even stupider than they were.

“Manjoume, you...wanted to know what was in it, didn't you?”

“Shut up.”

“I'll try my best.”

“You've already failed, slacker.”

“Ah, your standards are too high…”

“Why do you say that like it's a problem?”

“Well, that's because I-”

\---

And then Judai was standing in front of the brick wall, Andrea situated across from him, and the cameras were on. A tangible Ojama would have made for a great stress ball, especially Ojama Yellow with his bulbous head and scrawny limbs, but Manjoume settled for kneading the contents of his pockets together, perfectly aware of the look Misako was giving him. The concern was somewhere under the haughty raise of her eyebrows. He didn't need it.

“You're grinding your teeth,” she said, positioned next to him behind the cameras. And _maybe_ he was.

He refused to examine the reasons why. He tangled his Ojama keychain in the wires of his headphones.

“-as I'm sure all of our viewers already know. Today we're here with Yuki Judai, the exclusive coach of Manjoume Thunder and a fellow graduate of Duel Academia. So, I'm sure you're asked this all the time, but what was Manjoume like as a student? Is it true that the two of you were rivals?”

“Ah, Thunder would give a better answer to that than me,” Judai began with a winning smile, Winged Kuriboh bobbing and hooting. “The first time we dueled, he had a deck based on Chthonian monsters, which weren't as, er, energetic as the lovable Ojamas. From there, the pieces just fell into place. Everyone was still figuring out who they were and what kind of duelist they wanted to be, and it wasn't that much different for the two of us.”

“He didn't answer the question at _all_ ,” Manjoume muttered to Misako, his face twitching. “What, is he trying to become a politician?”

“His interviewer seems to accept that answer,” was Misako's counter, and she was right. Andrea had nodded, added a quick joke, and then laughed along to Judai's reply, the transition to her next question smooth. One down, ten to go.

“Why...did I agree to be here for this?” Manjoume grumbled, and then Misako shhh-ed him.

He might have deserved that.

“-for fans all over the world! So, what's your perception of Thunder's playstyle as a fellow duelist?” Andrea asked, her smile broad and encouraging.

“Thunder’s style? It's not very complicated,” Judai admitted, and Winged Kuriboh agreed with a flap of its wings. “He duels how he wants to, and that's why every turn is exciting, even if I'm not the one trying to counter him.” A slight pause, and then Judai shook his head. “I mean, there's only so many times I can have my field cleared by Ojama Delta Hurricane before my pride kicks in. Being on the receiving end of that effect, it puts you in a tough position!”

“But somehow you always seem to get out of it,” was Manjoume's low comment, and Misako shhh-ed him again.

It continued.

Predictably, Judai praised the Neo-Spacians like he was doing a not-so-subtle commercial for the archetype, answered every single question with more random laughs and head tilts than any other duelist Manjoume had ever encountered, and zoned out when Andrea brought up his 'career’ as a professional dueling coach, Yubel clearly yanking him aside for a quick consultation. Or whatever the equivalent was when souls and mind-reading were involved.

The truth was that, clutching his phone and fumbling the words in his head a thousand times, Manjoume had asked Judai to do it, a request that he had needed to make.

The clouds over the courtyard had peeled away like a thin film, leaving behind streaks of pale blue and shallow grey. Dry leaves scraped over rust-red bricks, some caught by the wind and loosened, set out in low arcs. Here, the distant waves couldn't reach them. The faint rumble of traffic undercut everything, as did the muffled sounds of voices. A bird-like spirit dipped through dark, spread branches and phased through the decorative archway, its plumes veined with blue and gold.

Judai's eyes tracked its movements, and, as it twisted over the roof and slipped out of sight, he hummed to himself, the red of the sun on his high cheekbones.

“I’m really not the studying type, and anyone I went to school with will _probably_ confirm that,” Judai said, his gaze faraway but holding the light. “A lot of those people will be surprised to see me here… Maybe I should do some shout outs?”

“You can at the end of our interview, if you'd like to.”

“Hmmm… No, that's alright. I might forget someone, so it's probably for the best.”

“Ah, okay! Then, back to the subject of your recent position as 'coach’ for Manjoume Thunder…”

The leaves cast grey shapes on the brick pathway, and Judai paused again. Brown hairs scattered across his forehead, some dragging lower. “All of the duelists I’ve met are striving for their own dreams, going towards them step by step. Watching that, it changes you.” Leaning back, he continued, beneath the soft wing-shapes of his spirit partner. “That’s the potential of dueling, and that’s also why I wanted to see how Thunder would change next. A flashy guy like him won’t be satisfied until he’s made everyone understand him.”

Andrea’s response was quick, and it earned her a slight grimace from Misako, his manager tapping her nails harder, her silver rings clicking with the motion. “So, it sounds like your coach-student relationship isn’t the typical one. …Do you have any top-secret techniques to prepare for a big match?”

“If I answer that, I think I’ll get yelled at, so…” Judai flashed a wide smile, and Manjoume, even though he had twisted his headphones into tight-knit ball and almost peeled the face off his Ojama keychain, knew exactly what the outcome of this interview would be. Judai, after all, had charmed a one-hundred-and-eighty-centimeter-long crocodile named Karen with nothing but some snacks and a persistent, bordering on idiotic, optimism. According to Johan, Judai had taken down a notorious, vicious team of professional card thieves with only the power of conversation and a well-timed handshake. Enraged duel spirits lost their focus as his Gentle Darkness influenced them, drawing out the malice like a poison.

Slowly, Manjoume crossed his arms, and he breathed in, steadying himself.

He found out the reason for Misako’s annoyance later, when they were in the car with Judai next to him the backseat and yawning into his hand.

“Miss Alconer was trying to bait you into talking about Edo Phoenix, since our agency wouldn’t approve any direct questions about him or his past at Duel Academia,” she explained while tapping out a lengthy text message. “Or, at the very least, she wanted more information from you than our agency is willing to give freely.”

“Can’t really blame her. That’s her job, isn’t it?” Judai replied with another yawn. “So, did I pass that test?”

“Of course,” Misako said, and Judai jolted Manjoume with an elbow to his ribcage. Fucking fantastic.

“Hear that? _I_ passed. Soon your legions of loyal fans will _all_ be mine. Prepare for the rise of one Yuki Judai, master of hero monsters and last-minute, hair-raising comebacks! Or… Ah, I need a stage name, don’t I?”

“Don’t think too hard about it. You might break something,” Manjoume growled, and he shoved Judai off, Yubel’s smug chuckles bouncing around his skull.

\---

By the time they reached the apartment door, Judai had settled on ‘Golden Hero, the Avatar of Justice’ as his first choice, and he had successfully ignored any of Manjoume’s own suggestions, such as ‘Thick-Skulled the Stubborn’ and ‘Lucky Bastard’. “You’ll inspire children everywhere by showing them that the only things they need to be successful in life are sheer luck and some basic math skills,” Manjoume declared as he jammed his key in, and Judai snickered behind him. “I’m being generous, in case you missed that. I’ve watched you try to subtract a negative number from a positive one before, and I plan on keeping that in my memory forever.”

“‘Galactic Savior Yuki Judai, the Hero of Neo Space’ also has a nice ring to it,” was Judai’s response, and Manjoume, huffing, pushed the door open and kicked his shoes off. Like a swarm of colourful bees, the low-attack spirits had descended, and he swatted them away. Next, Judai asked a very dumb question. “Uhh… What’s with the poster?”

“My newest merchandise line is out.”

“Yeah, but…”

“But?”

After throwing his jacket over a chair, Judai turned back towards him. Yubel-like, the expression could only be described as judgmental, verging on patronizing. “Hey, if we’re going to live together, we should probably discuss things like this, otherwise you’re going to wake up to a Neos banner on your bedroom ceiling.”

Snorting, Manjoume flopped onto the couch, his heels on the sealed box. “Unlikely. Besides, tell me one problem with that poster. If you can come up with a logical and persuasive argument, I, the great Manjoume Thunder, might even humor you.”

“…Isn’t it a bit _too_ egotistical to have a three-meter tall poster of yourself in the hallway?”

Branded with bursts of white lightning, the jet-black background of the poster framed Manjoume Thunder with one arm outstretched, his determined gaze set on the viewer as he announced an attack, a strong wind pulsing through his wild hair. The designer had embossed the branches of lightning and added holographic details to his dueling jacket, every buckle, zipper, and tear glittering in sliver, blue, and green.

“I pay for this high ceiling, so why wouldn’t I take advantage of its full potential?” Manjoume countered, and Yubel’s muffled giggles changed into a sudden bark of laughter, Judai himself twitching. Deal with it, slacker.

“Yeah, sure. But my point still stands,” Judai said, propping his bag against the dining table. Griggle and Spirit of the Breeze clung to his shirtsleeves, like children crossing a busy road with their guardian.

“In the lobby, you had the gall to call yourself the ‘Divine Master of Outer Space, the Prosperous Hero of Truth’. You’re in no position to lecture _me_ on humility.”

“He has you there,” Yubel purred, a disembodied voice, and when Judai fell onto the couch, he threw his head back and sighed. Griggle, shaking the leaves away from its face, used its booted feet to climb up Judai’s arm while jabbering about a familiar topic. The delicate fairy-type monster chimed in next, drifting up until she reached the ceiling.

Maybe Kenzan had mailed Judai a bunch of dirt. _That_ would be anticlimactic.

“Alright, I’ll show everyone. Just wait a little bit more, okay?”

“You shouldn’t indulge them.”

“Maybe, but you’re curious too.”

“…No.”

But Manjoume did crack an eye open when Judai pushed a utility knife through the first layer of tape. “Kenzan went all out, didn’t he?” he observed, and a flick of his wrist parted the top flaps.

First was a rough-textured brown coat, large enough that it still sagged in the middle when Judai lifted it up. The lining was thick. “Huh. Thought I'd lost this…”

“What, have you been using Kenzan's apartment as a storage locker?”

After a guilty shrug, Judai admitted it. “W-Well, to be fair, I used to camp out at Sho's place too, not to mention Johan's.” He folded over the coat one arm and set it aside, a beast-monster already burrowing inside it with a bark, the scaled tail wagging in a fast blur. “Smells like Pharaoh, and…” Judai plucked at the fine, tawny fur that had spread over the fabric of his turtleneck. “I still find this stuff everywhere. Makes you wonder how Pharaoh isn't bald.”

Most of the spirits had shoved themselves into the box, various paws, tails, and waggling feet sticking out of it. “I take it that Kenzan lost a bet and ended up with your cat. You can be a cruel opponent, Judai.”

“It's not like that,” Judai said, and next was a pair of long-sleeved shirts, each branded with a different city name. The logos were faded, and the letters were cracked. “As an alchemist, Daitokuji-sensei has studied the life cycles of many different creatures, since he wanted to extract or, er, identify the prime matter. It's essential to creating the Philosopher's Stone and the Elixir of Life,” Judai explained, which was perfectly viable evidence that he had spent way, _way_ too much time with their former professor. “He noticed the signs before I did. Pharaoh started to sleep a lot more than he used to. He didn't want to jump on chairs, couches, things like that.”

“I see.”

“All things considered, he's pretty old for a cat. Although, maybe that's not so strange for an alchemist's pet,” Judai said, and next was a pair of hiking boots. “Anyways, Kenzan said he'd take Pharaoh in. Daitokuji-sensei went along with it too.”

He pushed further into the box. A traveler's water bottle. A metal coffee mug, scratched from use. The mustard-yellow cap with a tyrannosaurus rex on the front made Judai snort before he flipped it on, the brim sticking up.

“See? Kenzan likes me enough to add a present!”

“He also sent you all the garbage you'd left at his place,” Manjoume retorted.

More trinkets followed. A Kuriboh mug, wrapped in newspaper. An emergency kit with metal clasps and instructions in ten languages on the back. Dog-eared phrase books came after it, Judai's hurried writing in the margins of the pages he flipped through. Some creased brochures and maps were stuffed behind the covers, and it made sense that Judai's passport had enough stamps to rival his own.

When Judai pulled out a stack of novels, Yubel shimmered, solidified, and then curled over the couch. Tufts of their thick hair fell over Judai’s forehead and down to his nose, their touch directed up the taped-over spine of a paperback, _THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO_.

“'He clung to one idea -- that of his happiness destroyed, without apparent cause, by an unheard-of fatality. He considered and reconsidered this idea, devoured it, so to speak, as the implacable Ugolino devours the skull of Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of Dante,’” Yubel drawled, their nails drifting over the title and down to the author. “Interesting, isn't it? It has a certain resonance, in my opinion. But, _ah_ , if only my dear Judai could get further than the cover…”

When Judai swatted at their chin, they caught his hand, and Manjoume jerked back when Yubel's odd eyes were suddenly on him, their full lips parted.

“Why, Jun-chan, you're staring.”

“What _should_ I do when some half-dragon bursts into my apartment? Uninvited, I might add,” was what he shot back with, but it only made Yubel leer at him, still draped over Judai with their clawed hands moving to his chest. The dizzying orange-green of their gaze pulsed, and Judai just kept sorting through the novels, raising his eyebrows at the covers -- FRANKENSTEIN was the one on top, just as worn as the others. “There are recent authors too,” Judai said, chiding. He didn't seem to notice the quick taps of Yubel's long fingers, or the way they nuzzled his head. “Detective novels are popular. You could try some of those.”

“I'm fine with these books, but thank you for your concern, my darling.”

“Whatever you say” Judai replied, shrugging. “Just don't blame me if you're bored.”

“If I'm bored, then my Jun-chan has to entertain me.”

No. _No._

And, inhaling fast, Manjoume leveled a finger at Yubel's smirking face, which was far, _far_ too amused for someone trying to catch the great Manjoume Thunder off guard. Again.

“Hey, freeloader, don't forget who you're speaking to. Use a respectful tone, and… A-And stop calling me that!”

\---

Yubel did not stop calling him that.

The Kuriboh mug went on the shelf next to the mismatched collection of Thunder mugs, and Yubel's books filled the space below the television, the back covers bearing stickers from different cities, the prices in different currencies. At the very bottom of the box, there had been a large, heavy metal tin with rune-like inscriptions on the lid, and, even though he had started to yawn between words, Judai had still explained the intersecting symbols and lines to the low-level spirits crowded around him, blinking up at the strange object in rapt wonder. Inside it were a few gemstones and sealed scrolls, yellowed from the passage of time. The narrow vials held clear liquids, and Judai, his expression fond, faraway again, retold an old story of his travels with Pharaoh and his teacher. There were close saves, mysterious enemies. Duels with high stakes.

By the end of it, the spirits were cuddled together, and their soft whispers gathered under the end of Judai's story, the conclusion reached as he put the lid back on the ornate tin. It clicked into place.

“You should stay awake for another hour at least,” Manjoume said, his arms crossed over his chest, and Judai looked at him, a feathered wing splayed over his sharp features. It moved back.

“For the jet lag? Yeah, I know.” After putting the tin on a side table, Judai leaned back and crossed his ankles on the empty box. It sagged from the added weight. “Guess I'm in no condition to make dinner, unfortunately.”

“Are you sure about that?”

A curved smile, and Judai's palm hid his eyes as his hand ran over his face, dipping with its steep angles. It rose over his forehead, and then it pushed his bangs away. “Manjoume, you really like me, don't you?”

An answer wasn't necessary, and Manjoume stood up, walked into the kitchen, and took out two packs of instant curry. The snores and squeaks of the low-attack spirits reached him, Winged Kuriboh's even breaths adding a new layer to that sound, making it deeper than before. The moon-shaped scars on the knuckles of Judai's right hand were from a street fight gone wrong, Yubel's protective scales materializing a second too late after an iron fist-guard had slipped through his defenses, and, now, here in this place, his arm was thrown over the back of the couch, the arch of it loose. Manjoume stared at its shape until that sudden feeling went away, the one that had tightened his chest and kept him still, riveted.

Later that night, he shoved a half-asleep Judai into his bedroom, and it felt like crossing another line when he started on his dress shirt, the buttons coming loose slowly.

Amber-brown hairs were spread over a dark pillow, and Judai, his eyes closed, worked off his jeans with one hand. His long-sleeved shirt followed next, and then he was just _there_ , the sheets below him patterned with Manjoume's own insignia in blue-grey. A tan line encircled Judai's neck. The red from the sun stayed high on his face, and it traced his bare arms and shoulders, stark against the sheets. His hip bones sloped down and under a tight blue waistband, and-

“Don't take so long. It's cold,” he mumbled as he covered another yawn, and Manjoume fumbled with his tie, which he _should_ have started first, but-

But Yuki Judai was on his bed, his strong thighs spreading as he stretched, his back in a shaking arch, and Manjoume, a refined and masterful duelist with worldwide appeal, almost choked himself with his custom-ordered tie.

“You're probably wearing Ojama boxers,” Judai drawled next, and-

Shit.

They were from his new line, tiny Ojama Reds and Ojama Blues high-fiving over a thunder-bolt pattern. Product testing was important.

Manjoume held the ends of his belt in both hands, and the yellow ‘THUNDER’ of his waistband was visible over the line of his black suit pants, loose and slipping down.

“...Well, guess I'm right,” Judai said without looking over, and then he laughed. Only Manjoume's good nature and legendary self-restraint stopped him from hurling the belt at Judai's head. The studs might have even hurt.

What a bastard.

“I can still kick you out,” he declared, and Judai's fingers, curled around his wide, dizzying smile, twitched a little. The laughter started again, louder than before.

“Hmmm… I don't think you will…”

“As the great Manjoume Thunder, unexpected twists are my specialty.”

But he didn't _sound_ like the great Manjoume Thunder, who spoke in a booming voice which could carry through a filled stadium and ignite the spark of any gathered crowd, building the tension to its breaking point. No, instead he was someone else, fumbling with his belt loops and kicking his socks off while daring to glance at his bed, in _his_ bedroom. Sometimes, in the deep exhaustion after a grueling day, after falling onto that same bed in his clothes and letting his deck holster hit the floor, unseen and unheard, he had thought about Judai in flashes, drawn in again and again, and now those angles were so real, almost next to him, and-

And Manjoume yelped when he was pulled onto the bed, an arm around his waist, and Judai -- who had no fucking _right_ smelling that good after a ten-hour flight and picking through a box infested with cat hair -- threw the blankets over them both. His chin rested on the top of Manjoume's head. He had pressed in close, so _close_ , that every breath could be felt in the subtle way it changed his body, starting and ending its cycle with the slow roll of his chest forward. The warmth was intoxicating, and it spread where they connected, pushing in deeper.

Calloused fingers brushed Manjoume's jawline, curving up to the high points of his face -- the line of his nose, the ridges of his cheekbones. They flitted down to his mouth, a thumb on his bottom lip.

“How about that for an unexpected twist?” Judai asked, and Manjoume could _hear_ the cocky turn of his smile. It made his face burn, and Judai's hand moved down, drawing a line over his right shoulder before looping back to his jawline, the drag of Judai's raised knuckles against his skin achingly gentle.

He wanted to answer, even if the words were just pointless things, insignificant pieces, but they kept falling away. He stayed there, against the steady rise and fall of Judai's chest, and time slipped out of place next. Then-

\---

The Ojamas were crying.

Awake, Manjoume threw the blankets off and searched through the dark, their low, pitiful whimpers crowded and distorted. Those sounds only intensified when he found Ojama Yellow, a crumpled pile in the middle of the bed. Colourless, limp, the little spirit struggled to lift his head, the tears overflowing as he continued to sob.

The others were near, cowering in the dark.

“B-Boss… S-She’s…”

“What happened?” he asked, and the next movement was from Judai, suddenly up and making the mattress dip from the shift in his weight. With a glance, Manjoume silenced him, and Ojama Yellow had started to gather his feeble courage. The sobs wracked his frail body. The other Ojamas pressed their sweat-soaked palms against his back.

“I-I swear, w-we didn’t do anything wrong! I… I d-didn’t-”

“ _What_ happened?” Manjoume asked again, his voice a command. It made Ojama Yellow go still, and he needed more information than that, a thousand possibilities slamming into his mind at once. Each other branched off into a thousand more. Potential crises. Unavoidable tragedies.

It could end in sadness.

Ojama Black opened his mouth. The sobs rose.

“B-Bell is missing, Boss.”

\---


	22. Judgement

\---

“We’re going,” he said, but there was no response, no change. He turned to face Judai, like a block of stone. All expression was gone. The horror must have overridden everything else, those piercing eyes made dull, blank. Manjoume hit his arm. “Judai, do you really want to stay behind?”

The emptiness fell, and when Judai’s eyes met his own, they were veined with other colours. The gold-yellow pushed through. “Take me to the village. I’ll find Bell.”

That answer was an immediate problem, and as Manjoume directed the Ojamas into his palms, their sobs broken by mumbled, indistinguishable words, he addressed it. He held nothing back.

“You made Bell into my responsibility. She lives in my village,” he stated, and he watched Judai’s hands tighten into fists, sharp knuckles rising as if they could pierce the skin. “I don’t care what the fuck you think of while we’re there, but any rescue mission is led by _me_ , not you. Got it?”

“We don’t have time for this.”

“Then hurry up and agree with me.”

“Fine,” was the response, bloodless. Judai looked away, sneering at nothing. “Take me there. Now.”

And even though Manjoume flinched at the fucking _order_ , he only grit his teeth and sank back down against the bed, the Ojamas a familiar babble of voices as he closed his eyes and breathed in. The desperation had changed the pitch, but he could ignore it, _endure_ it. When Judai grabbed at his right hand in the absolute dark that existed in the corridor between their worlds, the Ojamas tugged on his left hand, their skin clammy, cold.

If they were in the laboratory, or if he was passed out in the media van, then crossing over the threshold would have been like stepping through an open door, slow enough to let his senses drop away fluidly, without resistance. He had practiced for that, the initial dread worn away by experience until it could hardly be felt, weak like the wisps of smoke from a dying fire, one that used to pulse and surge.

Here, like this, the feeling was torn from his body.

The mushroom trees slashed a grey sky. Segmented insects chirped and buzzed as they crawled through the grass, and although he was the first one to stand, Judai wasted no time in staggering to his full height and then starting after Manjoume.

“Where are you going?”

He did not break his stride, and the Ojamas ran ahead, tripping over forked twigs and babbling even faster than before. The information came in scattered bursts, but he already collected enough.

“The village. The Ojamas can't be trusted with organizing a search party. From the sounds of it, they've accomplished nothing.”

“...Why would we go to the village?” Judai asked. “The Ojamas have probably searched there already. If we start in the forest, then-”

“Judai, the Ojamas are mine,” he countered, and he stopped Judai from interrupting with a snarl. The forest had started to open, the dirt pathway sloping down to the bowl of the village. Manjoume continued. “Trust me when I say that if we leave them alone, they won't do anything useful. I shouldn't have to explain this to you.”

Their guides looked between each other as they scampered ahead, tufts of dried-moss scattering on the empty pathway, and even from this distance he could see the chaos. The little spirits ran in zig-zags through the central plaza. Some were folded by the Manjoume statue and crying to each other.

“Gather everyone,” he ordered to Ojama Yellow, and his ace monster was quick to nod and scamper off. Judai was an unsteady presence by his side, shifting in place.

The lantern posts teetered as the Winged Ojamas landed on them, their long faces twisted in confusion, and the rest of the village followed with bitten nails and clenched hands. The problem was straightforward -- Bell had gone to her house last night, but now, in the late hours of the morning, she was missing. “Nobody saw her leave the village,” Ojama Grey reported, his wings high on his back. “We looked everywhere, but there's no sign of her.”

“We'll look again,” Manjoume said, and the Ojamas began to straighten, their eyes on him.

He split the winged Ojamas into search parties of two and sent them to the borders of the forest that encircled the region, various horns and flutes looped around their necks. If any of them found Bell, it would be the first time those instruments were used for something _other_ than scaring birds or inflicting new kinds of pain on his eardrums. The remaining drums, bells, and worn string instruments were given to the other Ojamas, and he had Ojama Yellow, kneeling down with a stick, draw a makeshift map in the dirt. The different groups would follow the trails that wound through the forest, given that Bell had wandered off by herself numerous times, making it a daily routine.

But never for so long. Never without telling her guardians first.

“We'll try this for an hour,” Manjoume said, setting his watch. “If we find nothing, we'll regroup here and talk strategy. No one goes off by themselves from this point. Got it?”

A series of fast nods, and then Ojama Blue, trembling, raised a hand.

“B-B-But if we don't find Bell, what… W-What does that mean?”

Manjoume was quick to respond. “A question like that is useless. I'm in charge. Let me deal with it.” He cast his gaze on the crowd, their faces streaked with tears, snot, and sweat. “Just follow my orders for now. Place in your trust in me.”

More nods, and the crowd began to disperse, the various groups clustering together and finding their marks. Their spirit forms had left him and Judai at a considerable disadvantage, one he was aware of, and he had grouped the two of them with Ojama Yellow, their own path skirting past the radish patches, the rows of young saplings, and ending at the large, rolling hills banded by thick trees and narrow ravines. The Winged Ojamas would have to take it from there, the distance close to his limit, and, as he followed Ojama Yellow up the first chipped steps, every movement of the little spirit making the bell he held jingle softly, Manjoume steeled himself for the next challenge.

Judai was too quiet.

When he glanced back, Judai's reaction was immediate, the words fast and intense.

“I can fly faster than any of your Ojamas. By covering more ground, I could scout the-”

“Do you seriously want to try something you've never done before in _this_ situation? Yeah, sure. That _always_ helps. It’s not like we’re using some high-risk, not-public-for-a-reason interdimensional transportation method or anything like that,” Manjoume snapped back, the sarcasm thick. He kept walking. “More importantly, we should avoid separating at all costs.”

“...Because I could be stuck here?”

He snorted. “Well, obviously. Plus, there's a high probability of you making some stupid decision if I leave you alone.”

“I could try reversing it. I could change into my solid form, search the area, and then try to change back using my-”

“Do you _hear_ yourself?”

But that impulsive part of Judai was quick to show itself. He suddenly unclasped the holster at his side and flipped the first card of his deck -- Winged Kuriboh.

“This search party isn't enough,” was what Judai said as he raised a transparent hand over the card, and then a green-skinned claw was jutting out of the portrait, tufts of brown fur following as Judai pulled the spirit out, tangible. His right arm turned solid, the effect extending up to his shoulder, then splitting across his chest.

When Manjoume grabbed at the hand, his transparent fingers falling through, Judai met his glare, unflinching.

“Stop this.”

“My cards can help us,” Judai began, determination etched into his face and drawing in shadows. “If I can bring their spirits into this world, I should be able to put them back. Plus, my body should then-”

“Do you ever pay attention? You don't know _any_ of this.”

Judai clenched his teeth. “Manjoume, you don't know if you'll find her.”

Damn it.

 _Damn_ it.

But Manjoume kept walking, biting down on words unsaid. He looked at Ojama Yellow, the monster’s antenna bobbing as they started down the worn pathway.

“Judai,” he began, focusing hard, “we're in _my_ domain, not Neo Space or Hero City or whatever. I'm taking the lead here, and that is not a fucking discussion. This first hour is mine.”

“You expect for me to just-”

“Give me an hour,” he ordered, and Ojama Yellow had glanced back with a puckered face. But they kept walking, the dirt pathway patterned with overlapping footprints. Away from the fields, commonly used in the early morning, the numbers of footprints would hopefully decrease, and maybe they would find Bell's distinctive paws and long furred tail marking the dirt.

Or maybe not.

The likely scenario was that Bell had wandered off and gotten lost in the maze of close-knit mushroom trees, her weak chirps not strong enough to be carried on the wind. Or she had fallen somewhere, her heavy shell making it difficult to stand again. But there were other possible theories, ones he _had_ to consider out of necessity. A creature like Bell could only run and hide, and if predators like the harpies had returned to the region, then that shell would only save her for so long.

And, somewhere else, his mind was also stuck on the subject of Judai's strange power, the Gentle Darkness. Maybe it was Judai's intense sympathy for his monsters that had tied their bodies together, forcing them into the same state when he tried to summon them in this realm. Maybe it was some side effect of his power's growth or his unique bond with his deck. Or with Yubel. Or with the field-spell method of crossing dimensions.

Or maybe it didn't make any fucking sense, and Manjoume, a tactician with too many variables, wasn't going to figure it out _now_ , not as the smooth pathway curved through the purple-grey saplings. Bell could have walked on the grass instead. The wind could have swept her tracks clean.

Therefore, it would be foolish to turn back.

Ojama Yellow waddled ahead, the whistle of his breathing the loudest sound. Below that was the rustle of the branches overhead, all empty. No signs of a struggle. In the distance, the winged Ojama Pink and Ojama Orange circled, high above the treeline and flying in formation, just as he had instructed.

Eventually the pathway thinned even further, the dirt broken by clumps of grass and overturned stones. No instruments had been played yet, and the winged Ojamas continued to bob and sway, and the landscape began to roll up higher, forming isolated valleys and crevices, the dirt there cracked and dried out. The shadows of the domed trees were long.

“Boss, we're almost done with this trail,” Ojama Yellow announced, and Manjoume nodded. Judai had drifted ahead, his shoulders set in a rigid line, and beyond that was the unending hills, peaked like rough waves.

Then Judai was suddenly on his knees, transparent and phasing through the tall, dark grass. “She was here,” he said, pointing at a deep depression in the grass. “She began walking on the grass at some point,” Judai added next, gesturing at the makeshift trail that extended back into the forest, “probably right before the radish fields ended. That's why we didn't find her footprints. The grass at the start of the forest is much shorter, so marks like these wouldn't be as obvious.”

“I see,” Manjoume stated, standing next to him while Ojama Yellow, blinking wide, ran his stubby fingers over the parted grass. Manjoume checked his watch -- twenty minutes left, and his breathing was relatively even. “Let's go after her.”

Judai kept his head down, and they walked in the shallow of the parted grass. It took them further into the hills, deeper into the surrounding forest.

The quiet burrowed in.

The feeling built slowly, step by measured step. It was a weight in his chest, rolling and pitching like a heavy metal ball with every step away from the village, the effect disorientating, dizzying. He blinked until his vision cleared. The time was acceptable, just a fraction of his limit, but the distance multiplied the exhaustion, and like this-

\---

_We can reduce the strain this causes you. We can lessen its chance of occurring…_

_…You know, I’ve read reports about the stress doing this places on your body and-_

\---

But Bell's tracks continued, and Judai-

Judai walked even faster.

“You...seriously don't feel it?”

“What are you talking about?” Judai asked. Ojama Yellow teetered after him, sweating from the new pace.

“Judai, we should go back soon. I… Shit.” He could have smacked himself. The stupid Ojamas had made him rush, and, in the panic, he had left his heart monitor in its case. Ideally, the warning system would contact the researchers and their on-demand medical team if his heart rate did anything strange or, the worst-case scenario, if he crashed, which, according to Dr. Krenshaw, was a thing that could _actually_ happen.

But the warning system would do shit all if he left it in the case, like a fucking moron.

But the sound of Judai's voice cut through everything.

“She was here,” he rasped, on his knees again and brushing his fingers over a strand of red fur, caught in the grass. His bangs were over his eyes, narrowed to slits.

But the trail moved out of the grass, and everything in front of them was banded by those patches of dried-out dirt. When Ojama Yellow waddled ahead, his bare feet scraped over the surface, leaving nothing behind.

“Uhh…What now, Boss?”

“Make some noise,” he ordered, and he kept his balance. For now. “Get the others here. Hurry.”

Judai had walked ahead. Manjoume watched him for some precious seconds, the hills pushing into each other as his vision blurred.

When Ojama Yellow swung the chipped bronze bell, the result was a sharp clang that echoed around them, and it was answered by a burst of noise from the other parties, an answer to the call. And while Ojama Yellow would _probably_ have swung it until his arms fell off, Manjoume stopped him with a raised hand, aware that the tremors inside it were showing through.

And then Judai's head jerked to the side. Another second passed.

When Judai ran ahead, it was with a yell of the lost spirit's name, and it was edged with something desperate, something dark and sinking. At full speed, Judai, arms swinging out, reached the top of the next hill, one that crested high and ended with a sheer drop, at least ten meters. Gnarled roots pierced the solid wall of dirt, clay, and stone, the different layers forked like veins, like cracks on stressed glass that would end in a violent shatter, a sudden break.

Even as a spirit, he had never been able to glide or float like the Ojamas did, but the ground below him still smoothed out, the roots that jutted up slipping through his legs. Like Judai, he threw himself down the drop, the dirt at the very top soft enough to preserve one pawprint with three toes.

Next to it was half of a pawprint, the missing half over the edge.

A younger, weaker version of himself would have kept his eyes trained on the ground, as if counting the granules of dirt would have somehow held back the unbroken cycle of their reality, the stark details of it overwhelming, absolute. Another version of himself would have jerked his chin up carelessly, as if that same reality had no power over him, its cruel hooks meant for others. The shadows were cast in browns, greys, and reds, and the reds were the deepest, the strongest. They marked the dirt at his feet.

Dried blood had gathered under Bell's shell, cracked along one side.

Her striped tail was limp.

Bell had a nameplate in his village that had been carved by the clumsy hands of his Ojamas, and he thought of it now, held onto the thought of it like a fucking shield as he walked closer to her still body and the person crouched over it.

But Judai's mouth was moving, the words soft enough that they passed under the rising wind and the distant voices of the Ojamas. Dark star-burst marks were below Bell's yellow eyes, open and focused, focused even as her curled paws trembled in pain. Some whirling, analytical part of his brain determined that the fall had broken her tail, the angle of the base unfamiliar, and another had started piecing together the events of that morning, ignoring the rapid rise and fall of Judai's chest. The terror on Judai's face was raw, like a stream of fresh blood, like evidence of the wound that had to be digging into him now, splitting all those fragile seams open.

“-and, hey, just try to keep still. Deep breaths. Come on, like this.” Judai paused, and Bell blinked up at him, her beaded tears scattering. “There you go… Let's practice that for now, okay? You're-”

It had to be hours, Manjoume thought. She had lain here for hours.

Necessity brought his gaze back to the open crack on her shell. It extended down from the rounded top, and, as he assessed the damage, he concluded that the shell itself had taken the brunt of the impact, possibly rattling hard enough to snap the base of her tail. Bell's yellow eyes opened and closed slowly, and she whimpered when Judai passed a transparent hand over her rock-like shell and its old scars, too numerous to count. It was futile to even try, like counting raindrops, like trying to remember where each one had fallen. The reality was an overwhelming torrent, and it continued to pour down.

“Ojama Yellow and the others are approaching,” he said, measured. Judai did not look back, that hand on Bell. “I'll give the instructions for her care. After that, we need to-”

“How can I leave her when-”

“Judai, don't fucking-”

Judai's jaw tightened. Agony, terror. “She _told_ Ojama Blue where she was going. She told him, and yet she lay here like a-”

“Is _that_ what really matters?” he spat, and when those eyes shifted up, he held his ground. He kept going. “It’s incredible how self-centered you are, Judai, even in a situation like this. Let it go for now.” Judai stared at him, challenging. “Judai, I'm serious.”

Although Judai had been ready to respond, baring his clenched teeth, the wails of the Ojamas cut him off, those without wings propelling themselves down the cliff and then staggering over to their charge, the same unrestrained shock on their many faces. Ojama Blue was bawling next to her, his wails the loudest.

“I-I-I didn't hear you, B-Bell. I was asleep, s-so I…” Whimpering, he stopped, the other Ojamas patting his back and shoulders. Bell was in the center of them all, her breathing unsteady.

Judai had stepped back. Everything showed on his face.

Under Manjoume's instruction, the Ojamas scraped together a primitive gurney, twine and young, green twigs used to hold the pieces of flat bark together. The sides of her shell were felt with cautious hands, and Bell answered their questions with gentle warbles, sometimes pausing to take deep, shaking breaths. The red gash, visible through the gap, had been from the grey rock below, its angle driving the mass against her shell, cracking it and making a shallow but painful wound. The Ojamas pressed scarves and scraps of fabric against it.

Judai knew more about treating injuries than he did, giving simple, curt commands and watching the Ojamas intently. Any mistakes were immediately corrected. Judai's short nails were tight against his palms, and that looming, approaching exhaustion was already enough of a warning sign for Manjoume. It was the equivalent of being bashed over the head with a 'STOP’ sign.

He wanted to say something.

He _meant_ to say something, but that damned exhaustion had already made its way into his head, turning his thoughts stupid and weak. He swayed when he tried to stand, panting as he dragged a hand through his long, wet bangs, and, shit, _all_ of that sweat was really from him, pouring over his forehead and sliding down his shaking palm. When he blinked, _there_ was Bell, on the ground with the dried blood as her shadow. Alone, isolated. Silent.

The absolute stillness of her body had been like that of Ryo in the hospital ward, one atrophied, bone-thin arm bruised from an inserted needle, the plastic lines that looped away from it filled with red.

When he blinked again, faster, there she was on the makeshift gurney, the Ojamas lifting it onto their low shoulders. Colorful scarves were jammed into her shell, some flecked with black-red. The physical damage could be repaired. The cut had already started to mend together, a patch of pink that broke the maze of blue fur matted with loose dirt and blood.

The Ojamas would watch her closer than ever before. If there was unseen damage, he would know as soon as the first signs appeared. It could be dealt with.

Somehow, it could all be dealt with.

Willing his vision to clear, Manjoume straightened his jacket. He staggered to his full height, every breath lodging in his tight throat. His watch had gone off at some point, the timer at minus thirty.

\---

_You overestimate yourself, Manjoume. Your strength, your perseverance._

\---

He started after the group, Bell hefted above them and laying perfectly horizontal. Although the Ojamas gave him those worried, puckered faces, they kept their mouths shut, _probably_ because he had already snapped at them a thousand times to focus on Bell, not their leader. Maybe that had been a rare mistake on his part. Maybe their eager, _loud_ support would have gotten through the abnormally thick skull of one Yuki Judai.

The pathway was bordered by the tilted saplings, like bare sticks that had been jammed into the ground.

“The Ojamas will...have to take it from here.”

“Just leave me behind. I can watch over her.”

“You...really don't get it, do you?”

And that's when Judai finally looked at him, _really_ looked at him. He watched as the realization clicked into place. He watched Judai become afraid in a new, terrible way.

Manjoume sighed, closing his eyes. The exhaustion bordered on pain.

“You're a stubborn idiot. You're...forgetful too, and that's even worse.” He paused, and then he blinked, the rays of sunlight piercing. They shifted between the spreading trees. “Not all of us have some Supreme King power to fall back on. You also have Yubel, which is just as unfair. Although, I’m sure the inside of your head is a mess from all the yelling, and maybe you should try listening to them more.” Judai had raised a hand to him, his expression raw. Manjoume continued. “As much as I would _like_ to yell at you right now, it would take too much effort. I'll make a note to do it later, so look forward to that.”

“M-Manjoume…” Judai trailed off, and then he whipped around, Ojama Yellow flinching from the sudden attention. “Hey, get us out of here. Everyone else takes cares of Bell, and I'll take care of…” Damn, it was hard -- watching Judai on the verge of falling apart again, all clenched teeth and fast, blunt movements. “I'll fix this. I-I have to…”

Dropping to the ground, Manjoume kept his eyes closed, and he willed that striking, circling reality to slip away, the pulsing voices of the Ojamas slowly merging together and then falling silent. Bell's quiet chirps had been under those voices, filling in the gaps, and her absence made his insides twist, a horrible chill writhing in his chest.

The corridor between dimensions was dark, as it always was, and Ojama Yellow was already yanking on his right hand, putting all of his weight against it. Judai gripped his left hand -- unsteady, uncertain.

When he opened his eyes, it was to a familiar ceiling, and he had latched a clawed hand onto Judai's arm, his next words burning in his throat. The real world multiplied the feeling, the strain digging deeper than before, reaching down to the bone.

But Judai's raw expression was the worst part.

“H-Hey, call Krenshaw,” he rasped, aware that he was sinking, about to faint. Damn it. Judai, impulsive at his core, was seriously going to freak out when that happened, and Manjoume held on for another second, Judai's fingers between his own, as if that tight grasp alone could keep him conscious.

Reality didn't work that way.

Reality was testing them now.

“Got it,” Judai said, barely a whisper.

\---

And when Manjoume woke up, he was in the same room, with the extremely obvious additions of an IV needle in his arm and a series of tight-faced people in white coats lurking by his neglected bookshelf, the spaces mostly used for magazines, old letters he had _meant_ to file away, and whatever take-out menus didn't fit in the kitchen drawer. Because they, evidently, didn't understand the meaning of 'DO NOT ENTER’, the low-attack spirits had floated into his bedroom, forming little clumps by the ceiling of competing textures and shapes, and many furred ears and tails shot up when he, carefully, millimeter by millimeter, propped himself up on his elbows, suppressing a wince.

“Ahhh! He's awake!” Ojama Black yelped, and, in a move that could not be described as 'helpful’, he shoved his belly obnoxiously close to Manjoume's face, the stubby arms embracing his nose in a makeshift hug.

“Maybe that vein in Yellow's forehead will stop making that scary shape,” Ojama Green observed, crossing his muscular arms and nodding to himself. And then he burst into a dramatic pose, Ojama Black joining in with some unnecessary belly jiggling. “Woo! Be right back! I'm going to be the hero who spreads the word that our boss is a-okay!”

“You,” Manjoume growled, “are not going _anywhere_. Don't forget that I'm not your boss in _name_ only.”

“O-Oh… R-Right!” Ojama Green said, and the two Ojamas settled on his chest, right over the attached electrodes. One of the coated figures was Dr. Krenshaw, her gaze flickering over to him for a short beat, and the slight tilt of her eyebrows indicated that she would get to him soon, the thick file on her clipboard flipped through page by page. The small console at his side, the end point of the leads, continued to beep slowly.

Bell.

His first question was about Bell.

From the scattered, tangled story that the two Ojamas gave him, Bell was still resting in the village's central hall, a hollow oval underneath the largest mushroom dome. Moved by the urgency of their mission, the winged Ojamas had scoured the region for wild herbs and plants, and the resulting concoction, a traditional remedy for everything from stubbed toes to tooth aches, had let Bell drift into sleep. The dressings for her wound had been changed.

“-and, I mean, Bell's got a lot more fur than a regular Ojama,” Ojama Black explained, “but the cut looks like it's trying to close up. It's not like that time when Ojama Red hit Ojama Orange with a shovel. I mean, we suddenly had _two_ Ojama Reds, which was kinda confusing.”

“Ahhhh. Right, I remember that,” Ojama Green added, frowning. “Ojama Red lifted the shovel up, and the metal part went flying and clocked Ojama Orange in the head. That Orangie, he still likes showing off the scar.”

“It _is_ pretty cool.”

“Oh! Yeah, totally!”

Manjoume bared his teeth. “Oi, do you two really expect for me to care about Ojama gossip? I can't think of a faster way to lose brain cells.” Before either one of the Ojamas could interject with a statement both moronic and, considering their default volumes, _loud_ , he added, “Just keep me updated. If _anything_ seems off about Bell, tell me immediately. I don't care how minor it seems.”

“No problem, Boss. The Ojama brothers are on the case!”

“Although,” Ojama Black mumbled, “Ojama Blue's really messed up. He cries a lot. I mean, between him and Bell, we're running out of clean handkerchiefs...”

The scenario fit the Ojama village perfectly -- accidental and ending in more complications than necessary. Bell, that orange, dotted scarf tied in a neat bow around her middle, had wobbled up to the open window of Ojama Blue's plaster-walled hut, the one with the tulips by the hand-carved door, and chirped her short message, only to mistake some snore or random grunt as an answer.

“Then give him something to do,” Manjoume said, exhaling slowly. The slight compression ached, but he could take it, his expression practiced.

His second question would have been about Judai. The Ojamas had fallen into an uneasy silence.

Dr. Krenshaw placed a gentle hand on his wrist, and the lingering low-attack spirits squinted at her, Rescue Rabbit flattening his long ears. The protective streak was unnecessary and almost insulting.

Almost.

“The dehydration should be relatively easy to fix,” she said, neutral. The ever-present Funny Bunny pin on her lapel clicked against her clipboard. “More importantly, our initial tests haven't revealed any abnormalities or serious damage, although we will need to conduct further tests at our laboratory to ensure the accuracy of these results.”

“So,” he began, meeting her stare, “the good news is that I only _feel_ like I've been hit by a truck.” He had to laugh at that, sardonic. “A cool scar would've added to my image, but the effects of the spirit world don't seem to work that way. How annoying.”

She remained focused, the lines between her eyebrows drawn into a deep 'v’. The mechanical beep was consistent, like a metronome, and it tracked the even cadence of her next words, the opposite of his own -- curt, vibrating with the effort he needed to form them.

“I overheard your part of the conversation with the Ojamas. At least, I assume it was with them,” she admitted, the tone unchanged. “However, for the sake of our analysis, I will ask that you give the complete story to me at a later date. Considering the recent progress you've made with this mode of spiritual transportation, your current state is…unexpected.”

He could have laughed again. Careful not to disturb the hanging wires, he dragged a limp hand over his face.

“Huh. It was irresponsible of Judai to run off like that. He should have saved me the trouble and told you himself.” He snorted, his palm on his jawline. This reality had continued to change, to churn like a fast, deep river.

“Huh? Did...we tell him about Judai?” Ojama Black asked.

“Nah,” Ojama Green answered, his mono-eye trained on the ceiling. “Our boss is a genius, so he's already figured it out.”

And Dr. Krenshaw had interrupted the little spirit, his words silent to her. “Perhaps it's not my place to say this, but Yuki Judai was visibly shaken by your condition. Unfortunately, he slipped out before I had time to address him in further detail. He mentioned an accident involving Bell, that was all.” She paused, tapping the clipboard and unaware of the single-eyed grimace directed at the side of her head. “Ah, I see. An incident like that could have taken you outside the village's immediate radius. The present side effects do seem to be amplified versions of the ones we observed back in September, when we tried to investigate the rumored harpy nest.”

And he remembered it all, the dried leaves rasping over the ground as Judai had made his appearance outside the research center that same day, trailing that static behind him. Judai had still smiled at him. Judai had laughed at his weak insults and, like that, made those years between them crumble and scatter into nothingness.

And maybe he was too short with the assistants next, demanding for all of those fucking wires and random, pointy things to be taken off of him, _out_ of him like the vivid needle and the single square of adhesive that kept it in place. And maybe he cursed too violently when he clicked on his phone, as if he had _really_ been stupid enough to expect a message from Judai, and the hour was late enough that he would miss the first block of his schedule. An assistant manager had already filled his inbox with the necessary questions, with distanced, oblique professional concern. Right now, that tone was the easiest to deal with, and his high rank let him get away with making irrational demands, such as throwing his schedule out with less than an hour's notice and then swiping to a new conversation window. He held his arm still as a thin bandage was applied, tapping the message with his left hand. It took longer than it needed to.

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [09:28]: where the fuck are you?**

 

But he felt like an even bigger moron after he hit 'send’, clicking the screen off with a barely hidden disgust and scowling at nothing in particular. Like a prideless fool, he was trying to collect the fragile shards of something broken.

It was a futile effort, like counting raindrops during a summer’s storm, like trying to remember the exact way each one had fallen.

\---

Four hours passed, which gave him more than enough time to deal with his management agency, and although dates and times were moved for his sake, their new positions tentative, he still had a serious headache by the time the medical assistants finally left the laboratory, oddly silent as the automatic doors closed behind them. He had shoved back an interview with Sho about their upcoming duel, and he expected an angry phone call any second. When provoked, the New Kaiser’s shrieks could reach a higher decibel than those of Ojama Yellow.

It was morbidly impressive.

“Physically, you seem to be fine,” Dr. Krenshaw concluded from her terminal, and Manjoume swung out of his testing chair, the usual monitoring equipment swapped out for the boxes and machines labeled 'EMERGENCY ANALYSIS’, which had been stored in the far corner -- normally unused, unneeded.

He shoved his shirt sleeves down. A slight tremble remained inside his hands. Any program filmed in high-definition would make that weakness obvious, especially if he had to duel.

“That,” she added with a quick gesture, “seems to be only temporary. While I can't be certain, it is likely a side effect of exhausting yourself in the spirit world.”

“It means I have to move two interviews, one talk show appearance, and that hour-long special on my signature dueling style,” Manjoume mumbled as he jammed a quick message into his phone, Misako likely to answer in seconds. If he was lucky, the CEO and his cronies would stay out of it, their rambling enough to grind his already-exhausted patience out of existence. “If I wasn't such a tolerate person, then that bastard Pegasus would be hearing from my agency's financial department, since I really should be compensated for negative results of the research methods that _his_ company sponsors.”

She ignored that easy bait, her ever-present neutrality worn so easily. Now, it was infuriating, like an opponent who always had a counter ready, cutting his momentum with the measured flick of a hand.

“We’ve already covered the methods to reduce the strain of this kind of interdimensional travel. The issue here seems to be that a sudden incident caused you to ignore those methods, which can be dangerous.”

“You don't need to lecture me.”

“I'm not,” she stated, unflinching. “I'm reminding you of what's at stake here.”

“You're acting like I've forgotten that, which, by the way, I haven't. Don't treat me like a child.”

“I'm not,” she repeated, and Manjoume’s next glare was directed at the floor, his own reflection showing on the tile.

Shit.

“I…” God damn it. God _damn_ it.

Rising from her terminal, Dr. Krenshaw took a step towards him, her clipboard under one arm. Her grey eyes were clear, and, aware of how fucking pathetic he must have seemed, cowering and snapping like someone cornered, Manjoume looked away, his hands clenched in his pockets. Thankfully, the Ojamas weren't around to watch him freak out.

“Notify me immediately if Bell's condition worsens,” she said, stopping with a click of her low heels. “The resources of my department are yours, Manjoume, and the responsibility you have for Bell can be supported by all of us.” He nodded, his throat tight. “I think it's for the best if we discuss this incident at a later time. You should rest.”

Of course she was right, but he still had to confirm it.

“When your team showed up at my apartment, how long did he stick around for?”

She expression tightened, and she paused to brush a loose strand of white hair back. “I can’t be sure. I...tried to keep him in my sight, but…” Another pause. “I failed. I...didn't expect to.”

And Manjoume was startled by the sound of his own laugh, mocking and given with a jagged smirk. Fuck, everything still hurt.

This hurt.

“If that guy _really_ wants to disappear, he'll do anything to make it happen, no matter how selfish,” Manjoume stated, and a barbed guilt turned in his chest. “Still, that's not the impression anyone should have of me. I'm...not someone who should be left behind so carelessly.”

And, from there, it wasn't long until he was leaving the West Research Center from a side entrance, taking an unmarked corporate car to his apartment and shutting his eyes in the backseat, his eyelids too heavy. Considering that the Ojamas, now on full alert, hadn't bashed his head in with their screams and yells, Bell had to be resting still, probably under the quilt that the Ojamas had given her on that first day, when Rainbow Dragon had split the clouds open with its prismatic light.

In a city with a hundred towers, a person with wings could hide so easily.

Judai had left all ten of his messages unread. Sending them had torn away the last shreds of his pride, leaving something raw like anger in its place.  

\---

Because it had been a matter of practicality, the apartment at Fortunis really wasn't up to his standards, the five rooms bare, plain, and cramped. A duelist of his caliber deserved a penthouse at least, preferably one with a dedicated spa room, an indoor pool, and massive windows that showed the city splayed below, ideally with the coastline on full display. It would have to be five times the size of his current apartment, minimum. He could buy one of the same size and caliber in Domino to complete the set. Several options were available.

He scrolled to another ocean-front listing. The one-hundred-square-meter spa room, complete with two baths and a free-standing shower, was a definite upgrade from the tiny box he had endured for, what, a year? Eleven months? Thirteen? Hell, the showerhead (singular, which was a massive problem) was too short for _him_ , and Judai had already complained about the way the low water pressure would make it-

Shit.

Manjoume dropped his phone on his chest, the rumbles from Misako -- by _far_ the most direct member of his management agency -- moving his schedule around. The lack of reported conflicts implied Shibata’s approval.

Without any direct reference to it, she had already determined that he was “out sick,” those faint shudders still moving inside his hands. If he shut his eyes, sleep pulled at him, hard.

For once, the constant chatter of the low-attack spirits was _actually_ useful.

But the topic could be improved.

“Ah, you shouldn't be alone when you're like this, Manjoume-sama,” a fairy-type monster whispered, other spirits squeaking and chirping as she continued. “It’s good that you're resting, but what if you need medicine? Who will get it for you?”

“Hey!” Blade Rabbit snapped, bearing the tact and subtlety of a sledgehammer. “Look, our boss can take care of himself! What, are you doubting him or somethin’?”

“Please don't misunderstand me,” she cooed, and Manjoume tried to keep his eyes shut and his hands folded together. He focused on keeping one stupid impulse buried. He had already filed through the likely places Judai would run off to, as if they could be narrowed down and categorized efficiently. High places. Anything by the coast.

But controlling that impulse would never work, his efforts like increasing the counter on a timebomb by milliseconds, the counter itself still dropping, plummeting too fast for him to stop.

It was approaching zero.

And then Manjoume was lifting himself off the couch, the cluster of spirits bursting with noise, and shoving on the nearest coat, the brown winter coat Kenzan had mailed them. It had been patched poorly, the stark red thread winding out of the uneven holes. Typical for Judai. So fucking typical.

And then he was outside, on the streets and walking with his head down, almost running when he hit the first network of alleyways. Below, the cracked pavement gathered the fallen rain in loose shapes, the slam of his boots scattering the reflected sky -- grey clouds slashed with vivid blue. Part residential, part commercial, the district itself had grown dense, every meter of space contested, and he knocked shoulders with the crowds on the sidewalks. He kept the brim of his hat low. And while Manjoume liked the thought of being compared to some all-powerful deity, the way that the weather mirrored his mood was not convenient in the slightest, the fine mist tracking small droplets down his neck and pushing a bitter cold inside the thick jacket.

A series of sharp diagonals lead him to the duel market, the central plaza dashed with empty spaces, indicative of the early hour, and the stalls were bare, some caged by barricades or covered by tarps. Rain gathered and dripped off the metal brackets of the blue-painted tower, a copy of the one in Domino City, and Manjoume, taking the risk of exposure, tilted his head back and checked that the higher tiers were really empty. Nothing broke the empty spaces of the metal grids, extending up to the heavy clouds, to the shifting sky. Iced tea in cans. Blue flowers that had left chunks of artificial glitter inside his dueling jacket.

He clicked his teeth. He did not stop moving.

The city of Fortunis spread around him, its many towers massive pillars of grey and black that competed with the churning grey-blue, that segmented it with their rigid edges. And he looked down every street, checking for _something_ that would lift the heavy feeling, that would kill his anger before it started again. Cars pressed close to the narrow sidewalks. Advertisements piled on-top of each other -- neon lights catching on the rain as it fell, bold characters crossed by forked lines of rain. Streets rammed into one another, compact and bordered by solid walls.

Only a pathetic person would have an impulse like this.

Only an idiot would chase after the shadow cast by someone who could fly so high.

The coast of Fortunis was clustered with those towers, now at his back as he strode onto the greying, damp sand, his bootprints deep. The tide was moving out, leaving behind a bank of darker sand, granules rolling back with every deep pulse of the ocean -- an unceasing motion, the water clouded. Along the shore, the sand eventually gave way to patches of rock, the smaller pebbles dragged out with the water, and Manjoume walked until he had exhausted that irrational part of himself which had _actually_ expected for Judai to be in an obvious place like this. The only marks in the sand were his own, the wind ripping across the shoreline and driving hard against the brown coat, the shoulders too wide. The patched sleeve was useless, inefficient. It let the cold in.

Beaded sweat wet his forehead, and a heavy fatigue rattled inside his chest, his next breath shallow.

Manjoume Thunder -- a top-rated duelist, an icon of his generation, and the one who had carved his own path through a gauntlet of challengers and earned the right to carry his pride openly, highly -- had been reduced to _this_. Like cracks in a sheet of ice, clear blue poured through the thick grey of the sky. Alone, he stood by the churning water, his jaw clenched. When the waves split from each other, they left steep grooves in their wake, like cliffs that dug into the ever-changing surface -- pale foam against dark, deep blue.

Pivoting on his heel, he started back, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of the coat. It carried a familiar scent.

\---

The grey weather continued in Fortunis for five days. It streaked the windows of his apartment with rain.

It was the same in Domino City, his fans gathered at the international arrivals gate and chanting as he raised his dominant hand, the flashes going off when he smirked. Striding through the crowd, he reacted perfectly, with precision. He signed the closest cards, his stance arrogant but reasonable, considering his status as a duelist. By his side, Misako observed every interaction, extending long into the night as the back-to-back interviews and recordings commenced: biting remarks for his opponents, measured statements for his supporters.

Invisible to most, the Ojama brothers had taken up a rotating shift, always leaving one of their trio behind at the village. The absences had left spaces in the usual chatter of the Ojama brothers, noticeable like stray drops of paint on a finished canvas, like cast-off from a brush moved carelessly.

Ojama Red rarely appeared, a streak of a contrasting colour. Ojama Blue had not left the village since Bell's return.

Because he dared to call himself an Ojama duelist, Manjoume knew what his responsibilities were, and, even as his schedule pushed into the early hours of the morning, he always found time to return to that place, the leads of his travel monitor tight against the inside of his wrist. A necessary precaution, Misako would be less than a meter away, monitoring the levels. She had no questions for him.

Inside the other world, the days passed under a clear sky. The early crops now pushed up through the dark dirt, specks of green and yellow that bordered the dirt trails. His last visit had been that morning, three days after leaving Fortunis. He had added ten missed calls to Judai, the number of unread messages at twenty.

The Ojamas had pieced together a split for Bell's tail, its design one that the Industrial Illusions researchers had constructed based Bell's size and injuries. He had memorized that design and repeated it while the Ojamas had worked, chattering amongst each other and squealing whenever he had a sharp-tongued critique.

Using strips of bark and thin twine, the split kept Bell's tail still, her red fur poking out of the gaps. That morning, she had wobbled up to him, her usual greeting given with a loud chirp, and then spun in a slow circle, her thick bandages traded for long, trailing ribbons, each one braided into a short tuft of blue hair exposed by her cracked shell. Ojama Blue, visibly nervous, had watched carefully, the woven basket held up to his chest piled with herbs and unused bandages.

Of course Bell had wanted to see Judai, her yellow eyes losing their sheen when she pivoted to his right, that space empty. _Fucking_ empty.

Another hotel room, and Manjoume hit the bed late, the smell of cigarettes clinging to his suit jacket, a sign of some corporate party -- an acceptable amount of praise directed his way, the conversations circling the topic of his next upcoming duel. Taking the jacket off would involve moving, and he woke up to his alarm. All of the new messages were from various members of his agency.

When he left the lobby, the crowd outside was separated by his security guards, the banners in slate blue and bearing his name. Unflinching, he strode to the corporate car, Misako in the seat next to his and immediately passing him a decaf coffee, size small with no sugar.

Getting healthy sucked.

The whole scheme had to be part of some _larger_ , universe-wide scheme to make him miserable or, if nothing else, piss him off. When he glared at the take-away cup, it did not respond. He suppressed the sudden urge to crush it.

Two Ojamas were already floating by his right ear, their chatter stilted, the topic changing to _anything_ that passed by the tinted window -- Ojama Yellow loudly speculating on what takoyaki was made out of (it wasn't Ojamas, contrary to the spirit’s latest theory).

“We have a meeting with the partners on Thursday,” Misako said while she tapped at her phone. “I just sent you the meeting notes from last time, for you to review. I expect they will have little to say that we can't expect, considering the year you've had as a professional duelist.”

“Who could complain about a contract with Manjoume Thunder?” he replied, but it sounded sarcastic, sardonic. It shouldn't have been a joke.

Damn it.

“Friday, we should meet with the public relations department. Ideally, we should schedule another interview with Judai for next week, given that his previous one with Miss Alconer was so successful,” she added next, and, gripping the cup, he knew where this was going, heading there on set tracks. No exits. “In terms of the public, your storyline has proved engaging and definitely contributed to your newfound popularity. Of course, the agency needs to be prepared for anything that may impact the public's perception of you. Or that of your fanbase.”

He snorted. Yeah, _right_.

“Whatever. There's no point in having a meeting about that slacker now.”

“Why would that be?”

Explaining that he had been mind-controlled by a magical light from outer space _would_ have been easier. So would explaining the whole 'duel zombie’ thing, even including the part about other dimensions. Hell, Misako could have a complete explanation of his brothers’ mind games from when he was a starry-eyed kid, a rich, demanding brat who thought that the world worked in some basic, simple way, like it was a vending machine that he could hurl coins into and the right thing would always fall out.

No. Not even _close_.

“I...don't exactly know where Judai is,” he explained, and Misako was suddenly leaning out of her seat and signaling for the driver to pull over.

“What do you need?”

“...Excuse me?”

“In terms of resources,” she said, nodding to herself. When Manjoume just stared at her, she continued, the words fast. “The police, a private investigator, a security service… Our agency has some connections to the private sector. I can make a call now.”

Headache, meet Manjoume. It was only six in the fucking morning.

“One,” he began, his face twitching, “the situation isn't like that. Two, trying to find Yuki Judai is a serious pain if he doesn’t _want_ to be found. Three, there's...” He paused. He hated that part of himself, still stuck on the absolute, crushing fear in Judai's eyes when he looked at Bell's shattered outer shell, the exposed fur matted with blood and dirt. “There’s someone else with Judai,” he said slowly, “and...they've sworn that they would protect him.”

Yubel had faltered before. The spirits collected by Judai had overwhelmed them both, and maybe his emotions had done the same outside the village -- cutting off Yubel’s voice, smothering their influence. But, perhaps foolishly, perhaps with an irrational, desperate hope, he wanted Yubel to be the ancient force he felt coiled in that deck -- steadfast and strong, one who understood the darkness and its light.

Frowning at the passing traffic, Manjoume found himself with his phone in his hands, the weight of it insignificant.

No new messages. He checked the conversation window.

“That... bastard…”

“What is it?”

“He's read my messages,” Manjoume muttered, his teeth clenched. “So, either Yuki Judai is alive and checking his phone, _checking_ and not answering, or someone has stolen his phone. If so,” he added as he hammered out a quick reply to that fucking silence, the characters hurried and stark, “that person is doing an excellent job of impersonating the _real_ Yuki Judai, given the fact that they're daring to ignore the one and only Manjoume Thunder.”

But the short demand, the equivalent of a sharp yell, did nothing, and the hours, heavy and long, dragged themselves by without a response. The very possibility of a response had already jammed itself into him, like a splinter that had lodged itself under his skin, tearing and pulling. A constant itch.

He couldn't dig it out.

\---

More time, and then he was scowling at a mirror while a looming stylist spoke in high-pitched French to his translator, flanked by Misako on the left. Evidently, the subject was his choice of suit. Despite being known for wearing black, to the point that Sho had loudly compared him to a stuck-up crow on _multiple_ occasions, the producers of the panel-based program had a problem with the colour of his chosen suit, and the intensity of the resulting argument only increased as it bounced around the tight-fitted dressing room.

That splinter-like feeling, serrated, had stayed there. It had burrowed deeper.

“Huh… You know, maybe they have a point,” Ojama Yellow mused, at maximum volume for _some_ reason. “You could try out more colours, Boss. And… Ohh! What about patterns?! Plaid is _everywhere_ this season!”

Ojama Black sighed, unimpressed. “Yellow, Yellow… Being popular is all about consistency.”

“...Oh? Really?”

He nodded. “Yep. It's like how we Ojamas always wear red briefs, not yellow briefs. It'd confuse our fans.”

“Ooooooooh. I get it!” Ojama Yellow shrieked, and Manjoume -- who _had_ been trying to apply his extremely limited French to the stylist's response -- felt something in his forehead twitch.

“Only a masochist would stick with Ojamas for this long,” he mumbled against the rim of his water bottle, unnoticed by the others. “I should try Chthonians again. Or maybe take up dragons full-time. My merchandise would sell out in seconds if the designers had better models to work with.”

Puckering his lips, Ojama Yellow, in a horrifying feat of flexibility, bent forward and threw one leg out. “Hmmmm? Us Ojamas are the most graceful models of all time! What'd you think? Hmmmmmm?”

Manjoume opened a browser window and immediately hammered in a search for Armed Dragon support.

“Uhhh… Boss? Whatcha doing?”

“Shopping,” he muttered, and the two Ojamas, their wails rising, watched as he reserved ten copies of Castle of Dragon Souls. Backups were always useful, especially when his schedule rotated him between different continents.

But he was in the wrong place for that message to come in. He was on the wrong continent, pretending to be Manjoume Thunder and not that desperate, shattered person still stuck in front of Bell, still trying to blink away the dark red of her clotted blood while Judai fell apart. Seam by seam.

Piece by piece.

 

**Yuki Judai [18:53]: hey. how is bell healing?**

 

Manjoume breathed in.

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [18:54]: you couldve seen her progress for yourself**

 

Bad start. He grit his teeth.

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [18:54]: her tail is almost set. the wound shows no signs of infection. no complications.**

 

Better.

He glanced up. The Ojamas had crowded by the screen and were pointing at Judai's short message, babbling to each other. Misako, in a loud, clear voice, dictated that a blue backdrop should be used to offset the dark black of his suit, and the lead producer, a twitching man who paced the room uneasily, seemed ready to give in to her demands, like an opponent who had just foreseen his own defeat.

One advantage of this situation was that it stopped him from calling Judai and yelling into the receiver. It also stopped him from calling and dealing with the steady rings of that unanswered phone, enduring the seconds that Judai let him waste so easily.

 

**Yuki Judai [18:56]: you dont deserve any of this**

 

“Why is he so sad?” Ojama Yellow asked. His forehead was wrinkled from the effort of thinking. “Like, Bell's back to running around all the time. She's even helping us plant the beans this year!”

He had seen that already, the way Bell would trot behind the Ojamas and use her flat paws to even out the dirt of a new field or stamp on brittle weeds, sometimes digging a pointed toe down to extract their long roots and white-coated bulbs. Sometimes the Ojamas would tie a flat cart behind her, loaded with mature plants that needed to be moved, their clumped roots thick with wet dirt. Fragile plants would be wrapped in cloth first, to prevent the stalks or roots from snapping.

During their work, Bell would babble to the Ojamas in a mixture of chirps and clicks, and every visit with her gave him new words in that language -- plant, sky, season, clay.

“Hey,” he began, entering the first characters into his phone, “my memory's a lot better than that of an Ojama like you. I haven't forgotten how you acted when Bell was still missing, getting snot everywhere and crying all the time.”

Ojama Yellow puffed up his chest. “W-Well, that's...not everything that happened. I had my cool heroic moments too. Right, Brother?”

With a sigh, Ojama Black mumbled, “Uhhh…. S-Sure. Of course.”

“My search party found Bell first!”

“ _My_ search party found Bell first,” Manjoume corrected with a hiss. “You're also missing the point, although that shouldn't surprise me considering how dense you are, Yellow.”

“B-Boss…?”

“For someone like Judai, that feeling hasn't gone anywhere,” he said next, and he kept his expression neutral, fixed. _Damn_ it. “He’s probably going over every second of that day and trying to analyze what happened or what _could_ have happened. It's...pointless, stupid. He's probably just going in circles, which accomplishes _nothing_ except pissing me off.”

“Boss…” Ojama Black trailed off, and Manjoume deleted a word. “Boss, Judai…can seem like a scary person, since all of those big heroes listen to him. Oh, and while Yubel's card may have zero-attack like us Ojamas, her level is way too high, which is also scary!”

“Are you going somewhere with this?”

The little spirit nodded, and Ojama Yellow took over. “But we've talked about it with everyone in the village, and, you know, it's useful to have someone like that around, just in case someone with even bigger monsters comes around. I-I mean, not that us Ojama _couldn't_ deal with it or anything. Ah...haha…”

A typical Ojama argument -- obvious and self-serving. As he deleted a line of text, Ojama Yellow floated over to his wrist, those thin yellow fingers meshed together in a nervous gesture. Manjoume clicked the screen off.

“It’s...not just that Judai saved Bell,” Ojama Yellow said, twisting his fingers. “You know, back when she was all alone in the human world.” He shuddered, perhaps at an old memory. “Judai, he's also done a lot for you, Boss. Maybe us Ojamas don't quite get it, but… Boss, if Judai stays around, you'll smile more, won't you?”

He checked the room, the argument now about the changes to the studio's lighting grid. He could work with that, covering his mouth with one hand. Ojamas could be so _blunt_. “Idiots, if you really wanted to help me out, you'd stop talking so I could finish this.”

With two big, lop-sided grins, the Ojamas nodded at each other and settled into the high collar of his dress shirt, their stubby legs over the knot of his tie. Clicking the screen on, Manjoume read his message again, a messy, rambling thing that couldn't hold even a tenth of what he wanted it to say.

When he deleted it, the Ojamas spun around and blinked, but that was the extent of their commentary. He started a new message.

This distance didn't suit them at all.

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [19:12]: a five-course meal that you pay for. flowers for every date. you have to watch my new special, including all of the extra footage, with no sarcastic comments.**

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [19:13]: maybe Ill be nice to you again after all of that.**

\---

And Judai answered him as he was shoving on a thick jacket for the snow outside and ignoring the bursts of flash bulbs, questions shouted at him from every side.

 

**Yuki Judai [22:30]: none of this has been fair to you. it could happen again.**

**Yuki Judai [20:30]: it could be worse the next time**

 

“Give me a second,” he said to the nearest assistant, tapping out a response with one hand. Outside was a wall of white starbursts, reporters competing for the best shot.

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [20:30]: where are you?**

 

And he kept his phone tight to his palm, buried in one pocket while he signed autographs and stood for pictures. It took more time than he had expected.

It took long enough that he was already back in North America, Fortunis his next stop. Misako's concern showed in her typical, controlled way -- any silences that extended for too long were broken up by her stilted reports on other duelists, the inner workings of the Pro League, or the current trends in his media coverage. But the message had come in, and now Manjoume had to make a move of his own, an answer to the slide of a piece across the board.

The driver took the next exit. At his side, Misako had raised her head, her own phone lowered.

“Do you need something?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he said, running his tongue along his bottom teeth. Even after all of this time, Judai could make even the most causal statement deceptive, the actual meaning held back, guarded.

 

**Yuki Judai [09:46]: how is your schedule lately?**

 

Then again, Manjoume had years of experience trying to see through even the thickest defenses.

Judai could see it for his damn self.

 

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [09:46]: [ThunderW2_FullM…] DOWNLOAD**

 **⚡** **⚡Thunder** **⚡** **⚡ [09:46]: try not to leak this to the press.**

 

And then he moved back against the seat, letting his eyes close for only the fraction of a second. Bit by bit, the image of Bell's distress had started to peel away, like that of Ryo's bone-thin arm against the pale blue hospital sheet, like the frenzied haze that had clouded Judai's eyes all those months ago, the static brushing against his choked-off words.

\---

**Yuki Judai [13:02]: youre in fortunis on friday. ill be waiting for you there.**

\---

Next was a list of coordinates.

And, as the clouds above gathered into thick shapes, Manjoume strode across the shoreline that bordered the gilded city, the coat he wore torn at the sleeve and repaired with stark red thread, letting the wind in. The black turtleneck, jeans, and boots were from a press appearance. The hat, coat, and scarf were from their apartment, the swarm of low-attack spirits asking him about Judai, the person who hadn't stopped by despite having a key, _despite_ knowing that Manjoume would have wanted him somewhere like that. Safe. Warm.

The beach in fucking December was not warm, but the heavy crash and roll of the waves _did_ suit someone like Judai. Winged Kuriboh rode on the updrafts, phasing through the seagulls. Specks of grey and white, their cries echoed down the bare shore, and the set of wet footprints in front of his own led him to where Judai stood, letting the wind throw his red jacket open.

“See? I knew you couldn’t do it,” Manjoume stated, and the caustic statement made Judai turn around, their eyes meeting. Amber brown, flecked with gold. “A hairstyle like that needs to be maintained. Leave the undercuts to people with more discipline than you, slacker.”

Another version of Judai would have reacted with a winning smile and a fast comment, the kind that could scatter Manjoume’s thoughts with no effort, with perfect ease. This Judai’s stare was suddenly back on the surging ocean, as if he could track every curve of it. Stubble traced his jawline.

“How bad was it?” Judai asked, and a jolt of wind kept his bangs away from his eyes, the traces of gold fading. “You were passed out by the time Dr. Krenshaw and the others arrived. She said you would stabilize, but…”

“When I woke up, I felt like shit,” Manjoume said, deadpan. “You’ve probably guessed that much. The tremors in my hands took a few days.”

“I see.”

He stared at Judai’s profile -- the slight indent of his chin, the bridge of his nose. Two old scars crossed at his hairline, bordered by grey-white. More were on his jawline.

“If you’re trying to apologize to me, some groveling would help. Try appealing to my ego or something.” Clicking his tongue, he continued, aware of the tension that had raised Judai’s shoulders. Yubel’s scales passed as a whisper over the blunt, teeth-like ridges of his knuckles. “Look, as much as I’d _like_ to yell at you right now for being a thick-headed moron, I’ve decided to hold back until you tell me what the fuck happened and why we’re _here_. Unlike you, I don’t exactly like spitting out sand and messing up my shoes.” A pause, and Judai gave him nothing. Absolutely nothing. “What, did you lose your key to our apartment?”

Judai shook his head. His nails ended in stark red curves.

“Manjoume, I won't lie to you,” Judai said, and Manjoume was ready to snap out a response, the anger running fast and hot, but then Judai was looking at him, _really_ looking at him with that sharp, intense focus. The gleam in his eyes was like the edge of a drawn sword, held up to the light. “I can't promise that this won't happen again. Maybe I could've been the person who would always say the right thing, but I can't be that person now. It’s...impossible.” He stopped, frowning. “I meant it when I said that you don't deserve this. You've done everything to bring your dream into reality, and your dueling shows that with every turn, with every draw. No one should tear you away from that.”

The waves rammed into each other, a harsh sound that rose and fell with the cries of the seagulls. Winged Kuriboh's soft trills were barely audible, like whispers while Manjoume gaped at the person across from him in wide-eyed shock, his chest tight.

Some things could not be repaired, no matter how desperately he gathered all the shards and tried to fit them in place, to hold them where they used to be.

“For your sake, I should-”

“Don't you _fucking_ dare,” Manjoume rasped, and he took a step forward with bared teeth, careless as he shoved his face close to Judai's. An old intimidation tactic, and he didn't miss the way Judai suppressed a strong flinch, those dark eyes burning. “I can take a lot from you, Yuki Judai, but I won't let you mess with me so thoughtlessly.”

“I'm not,” Judai said, his voice even as that tension drew tighter and tighter. A rope ready to snap. A metal cable that could sever the remains of that delicate thing between them.

But Manjoume Jun _never_ went down without a fight, and he let out a mocking laugh, pushing further into the space that divided them still.

“Oh? Really? Then tell me, what were you _really_ about to say?” Manjoume barked, ready for every flicker in that expression, the slight curl of Judai's mouth. Anger. Anger he could deal with. Right now, he wanted it. “Tell me, were you about to run off again? Or were you _actually_ going to break up with me?”

The gold-yellow flared, and then Judai looked away, the pain vivid on his face. Yubel's knife-like features had been pushed over his own, but they were just the pieces of a mask, the gaps visible and spreading.

“I don’t want to, but I-”

Manjoume grabbed at Judai's coat, and he pulled down, the movement carrying Judai's head back. Their foreheads hit, and the kiss was all teeth, the angle wrong. The wind ran over them both, digging in, and Judai shuddered against him as the contact dragged and dragged, warm in this place of cold.

Another hurried breath, and then a shaking hand brushed back his long, tangled bangs, the gesture achingly gentle but, somehow, tearing him down so fast, like it was something _easy_ to do.

It wasn't.

Here, with the waves unceasing and rough, Judai was beautiful, even with the fatigue like bruises under his eyes and the strange, controlled way he jerked back, the colour high on his face. Judai was beautiful in shades of red and gold, the chain around his neck shifting as he ran a calloused hand over it.

“There could be cameras out here,” he mumbled, “so maybe we shouldn’t… I mean…”

Manjoume adjusted the low brim of his ballcap, his smirk pointed. “Don’t let it go to your head, but I'll admit that you're right this time. We should've just met up at our apartment, then I wouldn't have to slow down, would I?”

Yes, Yuki Judai was _definitely_ blushing, ducking his chin into the high collar of his open jacket. “Hey, I'm trying to be serious here…”

“You're acting like I'm _not_ serious.”

Sighing, Judai looked away. “Manjoume…”

“Alright, alright.” He clicked his tongue, sneaking another glance at Judai. Winged Kuriboh, a stray balloon, slid closer with the next breeze, letting out a low coo when Judai smiled a little, closed-mouth and narrow. Conveniently, the Ojamas had stayed inside their cards, their brand of humor not _exactly_ ideal for a conversation like this, the structure of it still tense, weighted in the wrong places.

“I had a ‘GO THUNDER’ patch on that jacket,” Judai said as he raised an arm for Winged Kuriboh, the nimble spirit diving and then taking up a steady perch. “I lost it when I was traveling.”

“Red thread with _my_ insignia?” Manjoume replied, an eyebrow arched. “Your lack of taste really shouldn't surprise me by now. Still, it's a different matter when _my_ insignia is involved. My pride as a duelist is on the line.”

“Hmm. Is it really?” Judai asked, and Winged Kuriboh chirped, making his smile a little broader. And, fuck, did Manjoume want that, leaning into the pull of the wind as Judai poked at Winged Kuriboh's wings with a curious tilt of his head. Tangible fingers passed through intangible feathers, the seafoam breaking apart behind them.

An idea formed so quickly that, startled, it must have showed on his face.

“We can head back if it's too cold. Guess I didn't think this through, did I?”

“Typical,” Manjoume said, and then he pivoted on one heel, leaving a deep impression in the damp sand. The tide was going out. “Come on, slacker. We're not done yet.”

Blinking wildly, Judai matched his strides, the footprints spaced evenly, and someone less observant than Manjoume Thunder would have missed the steep angle of Judai's shoulders.

“Uh, where are we going?”

“Since you didn't buy me those flowers I asked for, I'm taking you to the dungeon that I've just renovated,” Manjoume replied, and Judai rolled his eyes. “Try to receive your punishment with _some_ dignity, if possible.”

“So, you're not going to tell me the answer?”

“It's called 'suspense,’ Judai,” he retorted, and this time Judai laughed, the wind running through his rough bangs. “Also, you've done this to me _multiple_ times. I'm just returning to the favour.”

“Okay, okay. I get the message,” Judai said, Winged Kuriboh a fluffy ball bobbing with every step. Another laugh, and when Manjoume glanced over, Judai just shook his head. His smile had turned brighter at the edges.

But the cracks were still there.

\---


	23. The Storm

\---

Within the span of five minutes, Judai's short attention span had exhausted itself, and the questions started up again, Manjoume scowling at the coastline while Judai, with a disarming grin, circled the subject of their destination. Winged Kuriboh provided the soundtrack of chirps and coos, and, considering who his own spirit partners were, Manjoume had dealt with much worse before.

On a day like this, with the grey clouds darkening as they gathered together, a long coat would have fit his persona much better, especially with the strong wind to flare it out. The crumpled, oversized bomber jacket with the ragged sleeve was less dramatic, but he did catch Judai staring at it between questions, the light in his eyes showing, flickering as if Judai was considering a strategy, a new move.

Still, the questions _were_ annoying, especially because Manjoume didn't like the answer.

If he was going to tear at Judai's latest scars, then it was only fair that Judai could see some of his own.

In a low curve, the beach was pushing closer and closer to the maze of the city, the prized properties that overlooked the water a mixture of residential and commercial. The ground-level restaurants and plazas were strewn with empty tables and chairs, some clustered underneath an overhanging roof or balcony -- indicative of the simple fact that the weather was shit. The forecast had predicted a 'downpour’.

Stupid Judai.

The curve of the beach sharpened as they approached the marina, fiberglass yachts swaying across from derelict fishing boats with faded names and chipped paint, some brave, foolish souls navigating the grid-like boardwalk that divided them -- hunched over from the spit of the light-but-persistent rain. Behind modern facades with clean lines and blunt edges, the completed towers loomed overhead.

“A disguise like that won't work for a taxi, will it?” Judai asked, water beaded in his thick hair, shaggy and uneven where it had started to grow out.

“We’re almost there,” Manjoume said. Given how traffic could back up along the main roads, their current route was probably the most efficient, minus the continued annoyance of the rain. “Try not to be so impatient.”

“How about we duel for the answer? If I win, you have to tell me where we're going.”

The modern facades would soon be broken by something unfinished, the street numbers counting down to their destination. It was an address that he did not want to know, some twisted, masochistic kind of spite keeping it in his memory.

“One, dueling would take longer than just walking there,” Manjoume began, and when Judai's eyebrows rose, he realized that, shit, he had just given away a clue. He continued with a scowl. “Two, challenging you to a duel would go against my current interests.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You would enjoy a duel, Judai. I'm not in the mood to indulge you yet.”

Judai chuckled, his high collar pulled over his chin, and he gave Manjoume a coded look as they started down a pedestrian street that ran behind the oceanfront properties. The water was shuttered by their solid forms, the panels of glass extending up to the grey-black sky.

“You definitely have a cruel side,” Judai observed, his expression teasing. The cracks were easy to ignore, _too_ easy. “It’s a little scary up close, but…”

“Let me guess. You _like_ it,” Manjoume said, and when their eyes met, Judai laughed, a low, rolling sound. It confirmed everything. “Please. Try telling me something I don't know.”

“Oh, I can do that. Easily.”

An unexpected response, and Manjoume looked back at him. “Uh… Okay?”

With an unexpected grin, Judai shoved his hands in his pockets, and maybe that tension had eased a little, setting his shoulders in a smooth, low line. “Well, just a few weeks ago, I almost became the CEO of Kaiba Corp.” And even though Manjoume had jerked to a stop, his brain stuck processing _that_ statement, Judai just shrugged and continued in the same easy tone. “It was right after your duel with Edo at the new arena. Kaiba challenged me with those stakes.”

“What did he want from you?”

Another shrug. “A favour. I can't say too much about it.”

“Judai…” Manjoume shook his head, as if the gesture would slide his thoughts back into place. Right. Judai vs. Kaiba, _the_ Kaiba. Lord of the Blue-Eyes White Dragons. “What happened? I take it that you lost in some spectacular fashion.”

“Well…” Judai paused, running a hand up his neck and over the crown of his head, making some long hairs stick up. “Let's just say that Kaiba had more copies of Dragon Ravine than I thought he would. Add Dragon's Mirror to his hand, and…” He laughed again, the sound louder. “As it turns out, the only thing harder to take out than a Blue-Eyes White Dragon is a Blue-Eyes Ultimate Dragon. The power of it...can't really be put into words. It's an experience, like standing outside right before a summer's storm and feeling something heavy gather in the air. It presses in around you, even before the first attack is declared “

“So, that's why you were late to my party.”

“W-Well…” Judai paused, and after Winged Kuriboh babbled something in his ear, Judai poked at the little spirit's belly. “Hey, why are you always right? Maybe you should take over my duels for awhile…”

“ _Hoot_!”

Manjoume set his expression to 'annoyed’, which had the intended effect. “My companion here,” Judai began with another poke, receiving a tiny 'meep’ in return, and started walking alongside Manjoume again, “just reminded me that the duel itself didn't take very long, especially since Kaiba still runs a power deck. His direct attacks hurt a lot,” Judai added. “Now, finding those flowers on the other hand… _That_ was quite the journey…”

He ignored the obvious bait. “Let me guess. Even if you had won, you would've just given the company back because dealing with it would’ve been too much trouble.”

“...But I'm not wrong about that, am I? Meeting. Stockholders. I'd have to wear a suit all the time.”

Manjoume gave a deadpan response. “Oh no. How terrible.”

Judai nodded. “I know, right? Plus, I'd have to get up early. That could affect my charming personality, not to mention my devilish good looks.”

“You're incorrigible.”

“In...corri… What?”

Although, that trait of Judai's could be useful, and when Manjoume stopped in front of the unfinished building that broke the smooth wall of luxury facades, Judai stopped next to him, gazing up at the exposed metal beams that overlapped from the fifth to eleventh floors. A cage with nothing in it.

With the empty spaces breaking up the facade, places where signs or lights should have been, the unfinished Manjoume Duel School resembled a calcified mass, like a uniform piece of coral that had been dropped onto the narrow oceanfront lot, bordered by a corporate tower and a residential compound. Development had begun before his acceptance letter to Duel Academia had arrived. A second lot with the same dimensions and a similar, central location had also been purchased in Domino City by the Manjoume Group, although his brothers had sold it to another firm less than a year later, owing to the youngest brother’s personal failure.

Development on the Fortunis location had started too quickly, and when the project was abandoned, the Manjoume Group cutting down on its assets tied to the dueling world, the building itself became something of a problem. Chosaku would have demolished the building and sold the empty lot, taking the hit from the construction. Refitting the specialized building for another purpose would have been more expensive than starting over.

But, especially in recent years, most major decisions for the firm rested with the other brother, Shoji. Demolishing the building could bring attention to its original purpose, the blueprints likely to resurface with enough scrutiny, and even though the name ‘MANJOUME’ had never graced its exterior, the building was still tied to that familial legacy, like a big, ugly monument to all of its problems.

Shoji had been the one to block him at the start of his career, blacklisting him from the major networks.

Bastard.

“Want to break in?”

Judai's eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?”

Something was satisfying about the confusion. Or maybe ‘'vindictive’ was a better word for it.

“Don’t get too excited. I told you before that my brothers had a bad habit of signing my name on things, and that included overseas properties like this one.” To make his point, he shoved the gate open. Dried leaves and plastic bags were caught in the chain-link fence, old graffiti marring the short plaza before the entrance. “Technically, I own the land below this building, although doing _anything_ with it would be a nightmare, considering the legal resources of the Manjoume Group.”

Judai had walked in front, and he dropped down to examine a crushed bottle, the label gone. “Yubel's concerned about the road behind us. There's a lot of foot traffic.”

“So?”

Judai rocked back on his heels, his attention moving up to the exposed beams. “So, it could still end in a scandal.”

“It won’t.”

The green-orange passed over Judai's eyes, missing the dark of his pupils. “It really is abandoned. No cameras. Old security.” Taking a step forward, Judai nudged at a loose chain with his foot, the other end hanging from the double doors. “This place bothers you, doesn't it?”

Manjoume didn't need to answer that, and, striding past Judai, he made for the nearest door, spiderwebs stretching and breaking as the old hinges were forced. It opened, and the smashed windows let shafts of thin light inside, catching on the shards of glass spread over the tiled floor. Each tile had the same design -- a 'M’ crossed with a 'G’.

“According to the plans, the main area should be further inside,” Manjoume explained, his nails tight against his palms. Even though he had conquered arenas that had held tens of thousands, it was as if years had just been knocked off his age, throwing him back to when a hard look from Shoji would have made him bow his head, ready for the anger to crash down.

“Manjoume…?”

“It was supposed to be a duel school, in case you haven't realized that yet,” Manjoume said without looking back, glass crunching under his heel. The supports for the elevator shafts contained nothing, the incomplete stairwell branded with graffiti, and he walked deeper into the maze. “I found out about it after my first agency dropped me. Some paperwork was sent to the wrong place.” Another crunch, and he dragged his heel, letting the debris shatter into smaller shards. “Considering how things are with my brothers, I wouldn't have found out any other way. I...wouldn't have learned about the extent of their investment in me.” Scoffing, he added with a deep grimace, “Paying off my school debt is one thing, but I still don't have the money to erase _all_ of this, even though I probably act like it.”

“But if the land under the building is in your name, can’t you-?”

“I don't _want_ anything to do with this shithole.” Even more glass, and he moved under a large archway, Judai trailing his steps. “I don't want Chosaku to have a spreadsheet somewhere that tracks just how much money they've sunk into this place, all because of the person I've turned out to be. I don't want my name to be on some piece of paper I didn't sign myself. I didn't ask for any of this to exist.”

The construction costs plus the demolition costs would be in the tens of millions, maybe the hundreds. The Manjoume Group could support it, probably without any effort, but-

Breathing out, he led Judai into the main room, the supposed ‘jewel’ of the original design. Burned out, tarnished by foolish hands, that same jewel was buried in decay, the walls unfinished and leading to a ceiling that, open in the middle, was crossed with raw, exposed scaffolding. Light trailed in.

But the rain was kept out.

The thin shafts of light traced Judai's profile, his expression unreadable. When he turned his head, Manjoume initiated a staring contest with the wall, or, more accurately, what was left of it -- the insulation pouring out.

“Manjoume, why are we here?”

The markings on the floor were the original guidelines for the VR dueling system, enough to handle ten arenas simultaneously. The upper floors would have dealt with classrooms and offices, all state-of-the-art, and-

Startled, he flinched when Judai's hand brushed his shoulder, and then it pulled away, Judai's short-nailed fingers curling in. An old scar ran across his palm, purple-edged.

“We're here because I'm not good at _this_ stuff,” Manjoume muttered, and Judai looked at him, waiting. The words felt awkward, and they sounded even worse. “Seriously, do you know how hard it is not to just curse at you for running off like that? If your goal was to make me worry about an idiot like you, then congratulations. Really, congratulations.”

A guilty expression, Judai's eyes narrowed at the corners. But it changed into something else.

“That doesn't explain why you've brought me to a place you hate.”

Judai's stare had turned challenging, and, like that, he was impossible to look away from. The brown was flecked with gold, and Manjoume knew it could peel away to reveal a solid yellow.

“The effect of a card like Evenly Matched is self-explanatory,” Manjoume began, and Judai had moved closer, drawn in. “Judai, I'm not going anywhere until I understand why you freaked out like that, so it's only fair that you get to see one of my secrets in return. Most people don't have an entire building dedicated to how much of a failure they used to be.”

More gold showed through as Judai's expression hardened. “You weren't a failure.”

“I…” Try again. He breathed in slowly. “I know. I…”

Damn it.

Calloused fingers passed through his bangs, the strands beaded with cold rain.

“Hey, it's alright. You don't have to stay here for my sake.” A slight pause, and the fingers moved down in a smooth, unbroken arch. “Although, I did learn something interesting about my favorite professional duelist. Or...should I say my favorite student?”

“Making you my coach was a mistake,” Manjoume mumbled, _pathetic_ , and Judai's fingers flitted over his neck, leaving a faint warmth behind. He leaned into the contact.

And _then_ Judai was moving away, his eyes darting across the open room, circular with the empty arenas left as outlines on the floor. “Have you changed your mind about a duel? The distances between people can vanish when a duel reaches its peak, and while I can try to guess what you're thinking, I can't really feel it unless we're dueling.” Judai rotated in place, taking in the layout while Winged Kuriboh flew between the scaffolding, leaving the spiderwebs intact. “Something tells me that it's the same for you.”

A duel. Here, in this place with the heavy, thick air.

He had already considered a duel, the idea pulling him out of sleep early that morning. He would have waited until they were somewhere else, but-

“New memories of this place could change your hatred for it.”

“I'm not putting my rare cards on this disgusting floor,” Manjoume said, scuffing his boot on it. Sand clung to the heel.

“You shouldn't have to,” Judai replied, and, straightening to his full height, he went over to the far wall. “I think I have a solution, but it involves some roleplaying.”

“Uhh…” Blinking rapidly, Manjoume watched as Judai surveyed the room for a third time, all white teeth and dimples.

“Not _that_ kind of roleplaying,” Judai chided, and, unceasing, he just _kept_ moving, striding through the archway to his left as he continued. “Even without your name on it, this building is probably a draw for neighbour kids, urban explorers, photographers, and…”

“And…?”

“Duelists, of course.” His jacket was open, the bronzed chain tight across the back of his neck, and, standing in the ruins, he could still smile, broad and slanted. “When we entered, I noticed that most of the garbage was actually by the side entrance, meaning that someone has visited here pretty regularly. If it's a duelist, then it's likely that they would get lazy and start leaving things behind. Like, for example…”

“A duel disk.”

Judai was _definitely_ taking the 'coach’ thing too seriously, as he held up a finger and remarked, “Perfect score. Although, for extra bonus points, you _could've_ said 'duel disks.’”

Manjoume had followed him under another arch, leaving them in a dirty, narrow hall that transitioned into a lecture room, the brackets for the seats never installed. “You were the type to sleep through tests. Forgive me if I don't take your advice too seriously.”

“We'll have to talk about your behaviour after class,” was Judai's immediate response, and it earned him an elbow to the ribs from Manjoume. “O-Okay, back on topic.” Despite that, Judai only smiled wider, and he tapped a nondescript door with his knuckles, the position placing it in the narrow passageway between the derelict duel school and the neighbouring office tower. “Yubel's already cleared the rest of the building, and Winged Kuriboh's up for playing referee during our duel. All that's left is to secure the exits and find the duel disks that I _know_ are here somewhere.”

“Winged Kuriboh is extremely biased,” Manjoume said, but he went along with it, getting the panels of his jeans covered in dust as he knelt next to a makeshift shelf, made of wooden pallets and concrete blocks, and poked at the neat row of rulebooks, all for Duel Monsters. It wasn't long until Judai confirmed his theory, lifting back a loose section of tile and emerging with two outdated duel disks, a spider so large that it could have passed for one of the rats at North Academy, and a few notebooks scrawled with wins and loses in red pen.

“Victory!” Judai announced while Manjoume watched the many-legged spider shoot across the floor and into a crack in the wall. Apparently being possessed by the spirit of some magical dead monarch made you fearless to the point of stupidity, as Judai continued with a careless shrug, the two duel disks hooked around one arm. “All that's left is to secure the exits, and then we can get started.”

“I'm not sure I want to be trapped here with _you_ ,” Manjoume mumbled, and when Judai knocked their shoulders together, he jumped and immediately took up position by the wall, the wall _opposite_ of that mutant arachnid.

“That species isn't dangerous.”

“ _I_ decide what's dangerous.”

With a heavy sigh, Judai turned on his heel. “Whatever you say, my darling student.”

Stupid Judai.

\---

Setting up the arena took way too fucking long. Some of it was his fault. Some it was because he liked to make Judai laugh, even if his methods were basic, simple like arguing about nicknames or misinterpreting Judai's words just to get a reaction.

Across the main room, Judai’s wrist was inside a portable holoprojector that had been hidden under an empty paint can, its wires held together with duct tape. With a triumphant smirk, he jolted up to his full height and wiped his hands on his jeans.

“I can't remember the last time I had to duel in an arena without proper Solid Vision,” Manjoume remarked. Rolling his sleeves up, clumps of dust loosening with the motion, he took up his mark in the middle of the far-left semicircle. The bracket on the duel disk could not be adjusted, and the plastic was tight to his skin. Its own projectors would have been insufficient. “My sponsors would be horrified, not to mention my manager.”

And then Judai hit the power, a car battery that linked the four consumer-grade projectors -- the flare of text pixelated and blurred, the technology more than a decade old. Somehow, the projectors connected to the duel disks, each flashing with a weak rainbow light that dimmed to a solid red. Overhead was the open hole that led to the floors above, strewn with wood that sagged and cracked, the splinters littering the center of their small arena. Behind him was the wall where his name would have hung, high above the duelists below.

Across from him stood Yuki Judai, covered in the same dust with traces of oil on his long fingers, his expression clear, determined. The duel would test them both, cleaving down to their cores, and anticipation curled in the thick air, electric as it coiled and gathered like storm clouds.

The silence was scattered by the sound of waves, pulsing and turning only meters away. A shattered window let the smell of salt in, stronger than the dense, damp scent of the abandoned building, and the cold could not be kept out. Goosebumps rose on his wrist, trailing up his arm.

But he had cast aside such pathetic, meaningless concerns, that same electricity making its way into his veins and staying there as Judai's eyes locked with his own. Ozone. The break of the clouds.

The first branch of forked lightning, and then Judai drew a card, his pupils ringed with the pure yellow of a king.

\---

The weight of a mountain was thrown against him every time he dueled against Judai, the undeniable master of the cards that he held. Like talismans, their spirits were woven into his own.

And, if Manjoume got to the point, to the jugular, then the pressure that bore down on him was addictive. It would intensify with every counter from Judai, the stark yellow of the Supreme King a weapon that could crush him whole, a hammer that hung above him. He wanted to push against it, the electricity surging, climbing.

Manjoume Thunder did not submit to anyone.

That morning, folded in the back of a corporate car, he had sifted through his deck again, spell and trap cards dropping onto the empty seat next to him while Ojama Green and Ojama Black, wheezing, slept in his inside pocket. The sunrise had spread in vivid oranges and reds, the first shock of blue broken up by the thick clouds, the blunt pieces of some puzzle, and his bitter coffee was cold when he had pushed his chosen cards together.

It was a deck with only one opponent in mind.

Judai's last deck, the one he had faced over a breakfast of hot eggs and reheated rice, had been devastating and reactive, driving for a complete domination of the board -- epitomized by the powerful fusion monsters that could rise from it, sometimes under the pulsing lights of Neo Space. It had been unpredictable. Victory could appear for an instance, and then, just seconds later, it could be shadowed by the spread wings of a deadly fusion.

Eventually the Ojamas had woken up, yawning and drooling all over his coat, and they had prodded the first iteration of that deck with curious pouts. Eventually their tiny cheers had started up, Ojama Black giving him a toothy grin while Ojama Green had flexed through a series of poses.

“Looks flashy, Boss!”

“Here comes the one-turn kill! Nobody can take on _our_ secret hurricane!”

At its full potential, his deck could deal 8000 points of direct damage, exploiting Ojamuscle, the Ojama tokens, and the monster zones on his own side of the field to give Ojama King a massive amount of attack points under the effects of Ojama Country. Ojama Delta Hurricane could clear his opponent’s monsters and back row, provided that the spell even _activated_ in the first place.

“The challenge is keeping the three of you on my field,” Manjoume had muttered to himself, aware of the risk involved. “Judai knows every millimeter of my cards.”

“Uhh. Throw some new ones in! That would mess with Judai's head, riiiight?”

“Yeah, isn't that how you knocked Edo out?”

When the car had turned off the highway, Fortunis had reached up in towers sparked with morning light, bright like water on scales.

“Leave the strategy to me,” was all he had said before sinking back against his seat, nursing the bitter, cold coffee for the remaining blocks to the apartment, _their_ apartment. There, he had swapped more cards, aware of the risk involved, but-

Those defenses had to be broken down. That jagged armor had to be split open.

And, standing across from Judai underneath the exposed scaffolding of the abandoned building, motes of dust drifting through the narrow shafts of light, Manjoume met the burning yellow that churned the warm brown of Judai's eyes. The Supreme King, the embodiment of his Gentle Darkness.

“Manjoume,” Judai began, a card passing through his fingers, “I won’t hold anything back.”

“Don’t insult me.”

A strange smile, like the hook-shape of moonlight on a rising wave, and then Judai played the first card.

\---

Manjoume Jun had entered Duel Academia in royal blue, a colour that suited his background and the future that had been constructed for him like a gilded hallway, lined with distorted mirrors. It had been confining.

He had not understood that simple truth until after he had lost to a boy with a red sunburn across his nose, dandelion seeds tangled in his brown hair, and sharp canines that showed when he smiled, smiled in a way that Manjoume, too young and too confused, had felt roll inside his chest. The nights at Slifer Red could be unending, spent tripping after Sho, Asuka, Hayato, and whoever else had come out with them, all drawn to Judai as he led the way and laughed when he stumbled over the forest’s roots and rocks. The pulse of the ocean had been like a steady breath, the night pressing in close around them with the scent of cedar, and, for some fast-beating, desperate reason, Manjoume would catch himself staring into the dark for the curve of Judai's shoulders, covered by the torn jacket of a Slifer Red.

For years he had denied what that reason was, sinking it like a rock hurled into the waves that surrounded the island. Judai tracked sand into their lecture halls and drew in the margins of his written tests -- Winged Kuribohs floating above a miniature Duel Academia, featuring a new statue of Yuki Judai on the highest tower. After they returned from the other dimension, Judai left the margins blank, leveling his empty gaze on the wall or the ceiling as the minutes would tick past. Just before graduation -- a rare day because Judai had _actually_ showed up to a lecture, his chin propped up on his knuckles and the sleeves of his jacket patterned with the spray from the ocean -- Judai had started a thin, faint version of Neos at the top of their assignment, the iconic monster in a stiff, heroic pose. Cross-hatching brought in the rough details, like the mask-like markings that ran down its stoic face.

And it made _perfect_ fucking sense that Manjoume, in the days leading up to their graduation, gave himself dark circles by writing love poems for Asuka at midnight and agonizing over the rhyme schemes, over each syllable, and over every line of his handwriting, uneven and hesitant. He compared her hair to everything from a sunbeam to a sunflower petal, a thesaurus and at least two dog-eared poetry books from Fubuki piled on his desk, scraps from old assignments shoved into them as bookmarks.

For the graduation party, he had planned a grand confession, including a live band, fireworks, and trained doves that would fly out in a heart-shaped formation to the soundtrack from the latest hit drama, the ballad's high note matched with the start of the pink-blue fireworks over the water.

But nothing happened that night, nothing expect himself and Asuka sitting for a long time on the stone steps leading up to the Obelisk Blue dormitory, isolated from the celebration that continued inside its walls. The counterpart to Fubuki's stylized uniform, her red ball gown fell around her in waves of smooth velvet, the long sleeves ending in delicate lace, embossed with winged birds. Moonlight traced her long hair, and when she described her university program -- her palms marked with reminders in blue ink, her perfume like jasmine -- Manjoume knew that he loved her. Completely. Absolutely.

He had loved the brave girl from Obelisk Blue for a long time, but-

But-

“Manjoume-kun?”

Asuka was looking at him, her head tilted to the side. Jasmine. The deep red of her dress.

“My apologies, Tenjouin-kun. I didn't mean to…” To _what_? Clicking his tongue, Manjoume crossed his arms and stared at nothing.

Behind them, the open doors of the event hall carried out the barks of laughter and the hurried conversations from their classmates.

When she stood up, the folds of the elaborate dress rustled, and, startled, Manjoume tilted his head back. There were too many words he had left unsaid. As a member of her graduating class, he needed to congratulate her again for taking the scholarship. He needed to bow to her again at a ninety-degree angle.

“Your message to Judai was very direct,” Asuka said, adjusting the teal pendant around her neck. “’Come back whenever you want, and let's duel’.”

As a matter of propriety, he stood up, but he kept his hands deep in the pockets of his tattered coat, splotches of paint and oil matched with old stains. “Even though he doesn't always _act_ like it, Judai is the person I've chosen as my main rival. For an honour like that, the least he can do is show up and challenge me again.”

“A duel always reflects the history of its duelists. When those duelists are rivals, that feeling is even stronger.” Their lectures had covered that subject, recording the clashes between magicians and dragons. Asuka smiled. “Everyone we know is reaching out for their own future, and when we find each other again, those duels will be more intense than anything we've experienced before. What do you think, Manjoume-kun?”

“You're correct, as any representative of Obelisk Blue should be.” His arrogance felt thin, especially with the knowing way she looked at him. “Of course, a duelist like myself only gets stronger with time. The next time Judai shows up, my deck will be the superior one. I'll crush him within the first ten turns, easily.”

“Hmm… But if Judai is traveling, seeing the world, and having duels of his own, then shouldn’t he become stronger as well?”

“Yeah, but not as strong as _me_ ,” Manjoume retorted, and Asuka almost laughed, covering her grin with a delicate sleeve. “If Judai doesn't change at _all_ , that would be a terrible insult to me as his rival.”

\---

But an honest future wasn't a straight path. It wasn't like a hallway that someone could carelessly walk down, knowing that their next step was secure and that they wouldn't fall down into the waiting darkness.

The future took the past with it, and in another dimension, Judai had seen terrible things.

Villages had been reduced to ash and charcoal. Lives had ended in a ring of hungry flames, each snuffed out under the yellowed gaze of an armored king. Guilt compounded guilt.

\---

After graduation, most of Manjoume’s duels were in front of crowds -- some screaming his name and cheering with every turned card, others silent and indifferent, and others bursting with excitement, jeering and loud, when direct attacks hit _him_.

The next time he saw Yuki Judai, Manjoume Thunder had been on a stage ringed with searing lights.

The arena could barely hold one-thousand people. The duels were sudden death.

Judai's shaggy brown hair had been shoved under a baseball cap, and his eyes were so fucking _familiar_ that Manjoume, the last piece of his elaborate attack balanced between two fingers, forgot everything else. For a strange, suspended moment, he stared at Judai in the crowd, aware that the card _needed_ to be played, aware that Judai's smile still did something to his chest. Tangible. A sudden pressure that demanded everything from him.

After shoving the first-place medal and its balled-up certificate into his pocket, Manjoume had searched every millimeter of the outdated arena and the narrow alleyways that encircled it, cursing into the cold air. But he hadn't _really_ been pissed off, as this was typical for Judai, an irritating person prone to rambling about hero-type monsters for hours and stealing other people's shrimp. His gaze had parted the silhouettes of the crowd, flaring like neon in the dark.

But, from what Manjoume understood now, it had been less than a week later until Judai had found Bell -- alone, small, and afraid. That rescue had, in turn, led Judai to a lonely place, the spirits inside his head bearing a constant fear of the world, their hurried words splitting his thoughts and constructing an ever-shifting wall of static.

That rescue had brought them together in some fractured way, and their first duel, the cards flat on the table in his apartment, had been a pure electricity, lightning branching inside of his head.  

\---

And in the hollow remains of the Manjoume Duel School, the pixelated dust cleared from where Elemental Hero Neos had surged ahead and destroyed a defense-position Ojama Green, the use of Contact Out making it the _third_ declared attack from Judai that turn. It let Judai keep the materials from Elemental Hero Air Neos, a pain by itself, and dodge the negative effect of a Neos fusion without Neo Space. A spell had let Air Hummingbird, its base attack low, take out Ojama Black with a squawk and a burst of wind at the cost of a discarded card.

“I set three cards and end my turn,” Judai said, and the field flickered as the contents of his back row materialized. In its current state, the field could only be described as 'Hurricane Worthy’, and when Manjoume _didn't_ draw Ojama Blue, he scowled at his hand.

Too many pieces were missing. Ojamandala would retrieve the Ojama brothers from the graveyard, but they needed something to _do_ instead of sitting on the ground and burping while Judai amassed his perfect army. His first copy of Ojama Country was already in the graveyard, countered by a trap from Judai. His _only_ copy of Ojama trio had been banished, an unexpected and _cautious_ move from his opponent.

Fuck.

Manjoume reached behind his head and felt around the seams of his turtleneck until there was a loud, startled 'squeak’. “Oi, get out here,” he ordered, his fingers intangible to Ojama Blue but, somehow, still making the interloper wiggle and pout. “Let me guess. One of the loudmouth brothers told the entire village what was what happening, and Bell, who has the intellectual advantage of _not_ being an Ojama, told you to watch my duel. Say that I'm right.”

The pout increased, Ojama Green looking away with a guilty cringe. “Y-Yeah, you're right, Boss.”

“Good. Now,” Manjoume added, arching a thin eyebrow as he leered at the little spirit, “your job is to do everything you can to let me draw _you_ next, not any of these other morons. Got it?”

“H-Huh?!” Ojama Blue jerked back, blinking fast. “B-Boss, I c-can't do anything like that!”

“Whatever. At least try to be useful instead of hiding behind my head,” Manjoume snapped before focusing on his cards again, just the incomplete parts of devastating combos. “Cheer for me like the others. I deserve your support more than anyone else.”

The immediate effect was that Ojama Blue, crawling up his arm, gave him a sharp nod, determination etched into his tiny features. “Yes! Boss, I'll cheer for you, so please draw me next!”

“Hey, Boss, get us out of the graveyard while you're at it,” Ojama Green drawled, picking his nose. “It's boring in here.”

“Why would I take a request from _you_?” Manjoume muttered as his fingertips ran over a monster card, and when he glanced up, Judai's stare was on him.

It dug into him.

The focus in those shadowed eyes was overwhelming. It made his fingers curl, his pulse hard and fast as the golden shards spread through the brown, parting it in chaotic patterns that shifted and turned. Absolute focus. Total control.

“You're way too reserved with that altered deck,” Manjoume observed, keeping his voice even as the gold continued to surge, hypnotic. “I remember this dumb kid who used to run into traps just to see what would happen. He _might've_ let me keep my Ojamas on the field out of sheer curiosity. Of course, those actions wouldn’t suit you now, but at least they would be useful for a duelist in my position.”

“I am curious,” Judai said, slow and measured. He tilted his head, shadows catching on the strong lines of his throat. “Manjoume, a duel like this can change us. It's an experience that can only happen at this exact moment.” His eyebrows lowered. “It’s an exchange, just between us.”

The card Manjoume had drawn was Ojama Black, which could be useful for a later turn. If its nameplate had read 'Ojama Blue’ instead, then he would have played it immediately and sent the monster straight into Air Hummingbird.

“An exchange, huh?” He picked his next card, rotating it. “Judai, if that's what you want, then I should start by taking more of your life points. In return, I'll promise to make it entertaining.”

And then Judai smirked, taunting.

“Let me guess. Nothing is more entertaining for you than a field clear, is it?”

“Obviously. Why _else_ would I keep the Ojamas around?”

“Ah, but an empty field during the opponent's turn is dangerous for a hero-user,” Judai said, and their intense duel -- sparked with that electricity, that heavy roll of approaching storm -- made Manjoume give his own challenging grin in return. Judai's gold-ringed stare tightened. “A single mistake could cost me the duel, and no situation could be more difficult than that.” A pause, the sound of the waves pouring in, and then Judai continued. “You’ve become even stronger. I can see that now.”

The empty space of the arena was between them, banded by shadow.

“You haven't seen my true strength yet,” Manjoume said, and for a professional duelist, it was a typical line, usually said like a hollow cliché.

Now, in the greying dark, as the waves crashed and fell, it made Judai's smirk sharper than before, like a declaration of intent.

An all-out battle.

A sudden clash.

\---

But, again and again, Judai countered the pieces that Manjoume tried, desperately, with clenched teeth, to keep _on_ the field for more than a second. The deck Judai wielded had an arsenal of spells and traps for that one purpose, the number of monster cards shockingly low, most of the leotard brigade benched.

It was a deck that tried to pry away his control with blunt counters and repeat attacks. Slowly, card by card, Judai moved closer to that position, the darkness trailing him like spread wings.

With a more, ah, _cooperative_ opponent, Manjoume would have already won, plunging their life points into the negatives with a direct attack from Ojama King. The strategy required a precise set of cards, ideally placing Ojama tokens on Judai's side of the field and then cracking them with Ojamuscle, and drawing Ojama Blue would have helped. A lot.

“Are you _sure_ you're not cheering for Judai by accident?” Manjoume snapped, and Ojama Red, vibrating with repressed energy, answered for Ojama Blue.

“Oi, oi! What about me?! I'm cool and ultra flashy!!”

“That's debatable,” Manjoume mumbled, and, even though more turns had passed, Judai's field remained a gauntlet of set cards and waiting monsters. Pixie Ring, coupled with the majority of his hand cards, had kept his life points at 2700, high in comparison to Judai's 400, but his defense reserves were running out. Worse, the defenses on the other side of the field were reaching their apex, and the chance of a spell or trap slipping through them was slim.  

“No hero deck should have _that_ many counter traps,” he grumbled, giving Judai a pointed glare. That smirk still curled something in his blood, testing his composure. “Solemn Judgement, Solemn Strike. Hey, isn't it strange that _you've_ dealt more damage to yourself than I have? Some people would call that 'symbolic’.”

“It's necessary,” Judai said, his words immediate. When he tilted his head back, his long bangs followed the motion, falling away from his face. “If I don't play those cards, you'll destroy my side of the field. Taking on a disadvantage like that, it's something I have to avoid when you're my opponent.”

“Is this some special anti-Ojama deck that you've constructed?” Manjoume clicked his tongue. “I set one monster card in face-down defense position.”

A chuckle, low under the rasp of the waves. “It's more of an anti-Manjoume deck, if I'm honest.”

“So, you've made this deck for me? Forgive me if I'm not flattered by that,” Manjoume said, considering his field. One monster card. Four set cards. Two cards left in his hand. “I end my turn.”

It was a massive risk, especially when he stood across from two monsters in attack position -- Elemental Hero Air Neos saved from its effect by Instant Neo Space. Wildheart flanked it, its form blurred by the spirit that floated under the pixels, and Judai’s choice of monster indicated just how closely he had been watching those previous duels, Mirror Force a staple in most professional-grade decks.

Judai drew one card, and then his sudden glare was on Manjoume, the gold taking over. It eclipsed everything else, boring into the black of his pupils.

“I summon Aqua Dolphin in attack position.”

Whirling, the old projectors constructed the small monster from the head down, the spirit's grin mischievous as it bobbed in place, glancing back at its controller.

“I activate the effect of Aqua Dolphin, discarding Air Hummingbird from my hand.” The monster card was fed into the duel disk, and Manjoume's cards were immediately projected across the field, the spirit of Ojama Red puffing out its cheeks in anger, ready for Judai's next order. It came with that same clarity. Judai threw one arm out, his fingers spread. “I send Ojama Red from your hand to the graveyard and inflict 500 points of damage.”

“Not cool,” Ojama Red muttered, kicking at the dust on the unfinished floor. “I didn't get to use my special move…”

Manjoume steeled himself.

Judai wasn't done yet, and when he paused, fingers folding in, Manjoume dared a glance at his set spell card, face-down on the left.

He knew the card Judai held out next -- the targets could be devastating. He waited for the declaration.

“I activate R - Righteous Justice to destroy two face-down cards in your spell and trap zone.”

And, as Manjoume watched the flare of fire immolate his first copy of Mirror Force, he dug his nails into his palms. The pressure stopped when Ojamagic was next, and then _he_ was the one barking out orders, spurned on by the way Judai, taken in by that lurid gold, reeled back.  

Good. Any fucking reaction was good.

“When Ojamagic is sent to the graveyard, I can add the three Ojama brothers from my deck to my hand.” With a grinding sound, the plastic duel disk spat out his cards, _vital_ to his victory.

Judai raised his arm again. Tension made his knuckles rise, pushing against their old scars.

“Air Neos, attack with hurricane's might.”

The pixels above the red hero, surging with the power of 4300 attack points, could not approximate its true attack -- the powerful muscles of its form clenching, the pink-feathered wings spreading into a taunt, controlled arch. When it shot across the battlefield, an intangible wind was carried with it, strong enough to make the Ojamas huddle together and shiver while Manjoume stood and watched a taloned hand strike his waiting monster. The card shattered, and the spirit that emerged sank to the ground with a wail, her fingers tangled in her red hair, the scraps of her torn dress rippling and splitting even further.

“When the Unhappy Maiden is destroyed, the battle phase ends immediately,” Judai said, quiet, while Manjoume dropped to one knee -- the frail spirit's head lowered as her frame shook, her card already in the graveyard slot of the plastic duel disk.

“You did well, so focus on that,” he said, like it was an order, and she carefully raised her body from the ground, strands of matted hair shifting back from her pale face. As if they were eager to demonstrate just how unhelpful they could be, the Ojamas had crowded around her and started up with their inane questions.

“Hey… Aren't you supposed to be in the apartment?”

“Ah, it's Quiet-chan!” Ojama Yellow announced, puffing his chest out. “So, you decided to help out the boss too?”

In their apartment, the low-attack spirits were drawn to Judai like iron flakes to a magnet, forming rounded shapes as they phased through the furniture in streams of scales, feathers, and patterned fur. Timid, the Unhappy Maiden rarely spoke, but Manjoume had watched her part Winged Kuriboh's thick, mane-like fur and hold it in separate tufts, trying to braid it while the other spirit cooed and whistled.

“Keep dueling,” was all she whispered before phasing back into her card, bent from the damp air of the Reject Well and creased by the force of an unknown hand.

Judai understood that. It explained the sudden emotion in his face, the gold submerged again.

Judai.

Rising to his full height, Manjoume faced the person on the opposite side of the arena, the shadows of the room, an empty husk, drawing near.

“Your heart is like mine,” Judai said, softly. “We want the same things for the spirits in our decks.”

The Ojamas, predictably, started to cry big, sloppy tears, and Manjoume shoved at them with his foot, aware that his heart was beating high and fast. Focus.

_Focus._

“Is...that why you panicked when Bell went missing?”

A flinch, one that Judai didn't suppress, and it was subtle how the hero monsters stepped back, forming a wall around their controller. The wing-like shadows had drifted over Judai's chest.

“I...was powerless, and the fear made it so I couldn't think. I confused Yubel like that. I couldn't hear their warnings.” He broke off for a moment, the shadows extending down, and Air Neos had braced itself, in formation with the other heroes. “And I...couldn't hear your warnings, Manjoume. I'm sorry. I'm…so sorry.”

Unsteady, Manjoume tried to say _something_ , but the words slipped away, brittle like flakes of ash as the waves just _kept_ crashing outside, louder than before.

“Y-You… You don't have to…” Damn it. Try again. Try _again_ , but he only stood there, stunned by the raw emotion in Judai's brown eyes, the pure terror that showed through and burned bright in the nearing dark.

“In the other dimension,” Judai began, their eyes locked even though that terror still burned, “the Supreme King took over after I had defeated Brron at the cost of my friends’ lives, _your_ life. He told me that I lacked power. He...used my emotions against me -- despair, agony, guilt.” That last word stopped Judai for a moment, shuddering. “I’ve changed since then. I know that I can control those powers and contain the darkness of my past. But, still, I _can't_ stand the thought of watching someone die again while I do nothing, absolutely _nothing_ to stop it.”

“Yes, Bell was injured, but she-”

Judai cut him off. “We both know that it could have been worse. A steeper hill was less than ten meters away. Infection could have set in. Manjoume, _you_ could have-”

“Don’t say it.”

And, aching, he watched as Judai breathed in through clenched teeth, the pain stark. It hurt them both.

“I set one card face down. I end my turn.”

When Manjoume drew his card, the Ojamas were in a ball on the ground, peering up at him like a clutch of extremely ugly baby birds, hairless, wrinkled, and grotesque. He had drawn Ojama Delta Hurricane.

There were two options.

Against any other opponent, he would have immediately banished the Ojama Duo waiting in his graveyard, taking Ojama Blue out of his deck and starting a combination that could end the duel or, at the very least, reverse its momentum, but this was _Judai_ , behind a wall of monsters and with too many face-down cards. The timing was off. He had let too many pieces slip away.

This next attack would not work, and he kept Ojama Blue back, that copy of Ojama Duo a lifeline that could lead them both out of the dark.

“I activate Jar of Greed, allowing me to draw one card.” It was Mirror Force -- his second copy.

An impassive stare, and Manjoume turned his second trap.

“Next, I activate Revenge of the Normal, allowing me to summon Ojama Green, Ojama Black, and Ojama Yellow from my hand.”

The celebration was immediate, Ojama Blue and Ojama Red hooting as their comrades strutted onto the marred arena, a slab of broken tiles in an abandoned building, the interior walls sagging and rotting. With some effort, Ojama Green lifted his brothers over his head, and their inverted triangle made the two Ojamas on the sidelines clap harder, Ojama Blue crying again.

Manjoume straightened his shoulders, his features in an arrogant sneer. He wanted a reaction. “You know, there are rumors about a surprising thing happening when the Ojama brothers are together. I wonder if you can guess what it is.”

Air Neos widened its stance, the other two monsters exchanging quick looks. The duelist behind them did not move, the shadows thick over his throat.

Ojama Delta Hurricane connected with the plastic, a weak rainbow light engulfing it, but the effect never connected.

Judai was too fast.

Stone walls rose around them, scarlet banners with an unknown symbol pouring over the battlements and flaring with an unfelt wind. A continuous trap card, high on Judai's side of the field. “I activate Imperial Order. All spell cards are negated. During my standby phase, I must pay 600 life points or destroy this card.”

The inverted triangle fell apart, Ojama Yellow bouncing off the ground while Ojama Black wailed and rolled onto his back, his pudgy fists over his face.

Manjoume's mind was whirling, drawn again and _again_ to that line of face-down cards, all under the shadow cast by the castle wall, dark as it passed over Judai.

“Y-You…” He could have slapped himself, that word muttered so weakly, like that of someone already defeated. Slashing at the air, Manjoume straightened to his full height, his glare set on the duelist opposite him, the ruler of that stone cage. “You’re pissing me off, and that's dangerous for _you_ , Judai. What is _with_ style of dueling?”

“The trap card will be destroyed at the start of my turn,” Judai said, which only made the irritation worse. He pressed on. “Manjoume, you could have summoned Ojama Blue using Ojama Duo earlier, which would have given you Ojama Country. Even without Polymerization, the effects of that spell would have disrupted my control of the field.” He sounded like Yubel, as if the spirit had helped him form the words, clipped and strained. “You've reprimanded me for being too cautious. Do...I have the right to say that same thing about you?”

‘Reprimanded’. Definitely Yubel, but the guarded expression was all Judai.

“All _you've_ done since the start of this duel is block me. Some ‘exchange’ this is,” Manjoume snapped. “Imperial Order is a fucking pain, but it's only one of your face-down cards. For all I know, your last copy of Solemn Judgement is under there, and you _probably_ have something more annoying next to it. Royal Decree? Dark Fall?” He clicked his tongue. He turned away, ignoring the banner that rippled overhead. “None of these cards suit you, and you've cornered us both with this dishonest dueling style. There's a difference between acting responsible and acting like you're afraid.”

No response, and Manjoume set one card, Mirror Force. A trap from Judai kept Air Neos on the field and allowed him to draw more cards, and he could almost hear the phantom cracks of trees, the pummel of wind against stone, and the staggering, bellowing roar of was waiting for him in that deck, a beast born within torrents of rain and gales that could strike mountains from the earth.

That storm would hit next.

\---

“Air Neos, attack Ojama Yellow.”

“I activate Mirror Force, destroying your attack-position monsters.”

A flicker of pure yellow. Even without the castle walls of Imperial Order, Judai remained under its shadow. “I activate the counter-trap Solemn Judgement, paying half of my life points to destroy Mirror Force.”

Shit.

And the red hero surged ahead, leaping across the field with its wings pushed out in a rigid line, making it glide as it threw back one arm and delivered a punch that burst through Ojama Black’s gut, the spirit shrieking in horror as its image shattered. Ojama Green and Ojama Yellow were close by, cowering next to their brother as Wildheart and Aqua Dolphin moved in synch, meeting Air Neos as he returned to their side of the field -- victorious. A deafening silence.

“Wildheart, attack Ojama Green.”

The same fucking scenario, just with different characters -- Ojama Green sticking his tongue out while Manjoume, clutching the only card he had left, scraped together the _vestiges_ of his old plans that were being ripped apart. A spell card let Aqua Dolphin, its base attack low, swing an uppercut through Ojama Yellow, resulting in a string of insults at 'Flipper Face’.

Had Judai used Aqua Dolphin’s’ effect, he would have lost his final 200 life points -- the only card Manjoume held was a spell card, a piece of the ever-changing puzzle that was this duel. Unceasing. Relentless.

“I end my turn.”

In another dimension, Judai had seen terrible things done with his own hands, and, here, breathing in the same musky air, the salt from the ocean mixed in, Judai had shown him a similar fear, the fear caused by the persistent thought of losing someone.

Baring his teeth in a snarl, Manjoume drew a card and forced himself to look at it.

Polymerization.

It _finally_ worked, and he shot a quick smirk at the cluster of Ojamas. His hands shook from the sudden adrenaline. The electricity spiraled, hot under his skin. He held two cards, two crucial pieces.

They needed to hit the field and _stay_ there.

“I banish Ojama Duo from my graveyard to special summon Ojama Blue and Ojama Yellow from my deck.”

With a round of high-fives, Ojama Blue burst onto the field, posed with his legs and shoulders spread despite the wall of monsters across from him, Air Neos towering in serrated red. The more experienced one of the two, Ojama Yellow had a pressing question, sniffing back a drop of snot.

“Uh… B-Boss? D-Did you mean to bring out Blue?”

“Yes, because I'm ending this,” he said, breathing in when Judai raised his lowered eyes, the gold pushing through like a warning. But fuck that. “Ojama Blue, attack Aqua Dolphin.”

The complaints were from Ojama Yellow. “W-What…? Why would he...?”

Ojama Blue looked back, and then he started to march across the field, his arms swinging out. No words were needed.

When the spirit stopped in front of Aqua Dolphin, he was greeted with a playful stance, the Neo Spacian dipping left and right like a boxer. Ojama Blue threw a single punch and was then greeted by a right-hook to the head, the impact sending out waves of pixelated debris -- neutral grey.

With a steady click, the plastic duel disk transferred Ojama Blue to the graveyard, the portrait disappearing into the narrow slot. Manjoume's life points hit 1600, displayed in block numbers on a chipped screen.

“You did well,” he said when the spirit marched back to his side and was immediately shoved into a group hug by the other Ojamas. “Blue, you should have a story to tell everyone else now. Take pride in that.”

“Yes, Boss!”

With a final nod, Manjoume returned his focus to the duel, blood pounding loud and fast inside his head. “I activate Ojama Blue's ability, allowing me to add two Ojama cards from my deck to my hand. I select Ojama Delta Hurricane and Ojama Country.” The duel disk spat the cards out, and Manjoume continued, aware that he was close, so fucking _close_. “Next, I pay 1000 life points to activate Ojamandala from my hand, reviving Ojama Green, Ojama Black, and Ojama Yellow from my graveyard.”

“Ah, two of me! Boss, why?!” Ojama Yellow yelped as the projectors made the pixelated likenesses of the brothers, the copies of Yellow bracketing the other two, bobbing up and down in the jerky movements of an outdated animation.

Manjoume continued, shoving his bangs out of his eyes.

“With the trio on the field, I can activate my iconic spell, the card that exists alongside the legacy of Manjoume Thunder. I activate Ojama Delta Hurricane.”

And, against all the odds, in spite of the set cards lurking behind Judai’s chosen heroes, it went through, the brothers hooting as the rainbow light built and built in intensity, engulfing the concrete floor, the ugly walls, and the outlines of Judai's heroes, all facing the building light head on. They took the hit. They were driven apart by an undeniable force, and behind them, when the wisps of grey smoke cleared, Judai had set in his jaw, the piercing gaze on where his chosen heroes used to be.

“Everyone… You worked hard. I promise I'll keep going.” Judai steadied himself, the golden chain passing under his palm. “The effect of Instant Neo Space activates when Air Neos is removed from the field. Come out, Elemental Hero Neos!”

A wall of rainbow light, and then the familiar hero gained its form, strong and coiled with clenched fists as it stood before Judai, a guard against what would follow next.

Polymerization, Ojama King. One copy of Ojama Yellow remained, teetering on clumsy feet next to the massive creature, set in attack mode.

Finally, Ojama Country rose up from the greying tiles, the simple houses in rough piles, clustered around the empty square lined with red dirt and overlapping footprints. Pushed to their limits, the projectors could not do it justice, missing the bars of the fences, the pitched shape of the well, and the vivid purples of the winding forest. Craning his head back, Ojama Yellow gaped at the tiers of houses, the fusion monster at his right exhaling slowly, infused with the power of this distant place.

Dappled shadows passed over the bold white of Neos, the mask-like face unreadable, but that stance showed the spirit's intent, its need to defend the person that it loved.

The battle phase had passed with Ojama Blue's attack, and Manjoume -- trying to clear his head, eager to take this duel, to _win_ because of what it could mean -- had to end it here, victory on a fraying thread but swinging within his grasp.

“I end my turn.”

Just like his own, Judai's hands were empty by his sides.

200 life points to 600.

“The projection, it misses some of the details, doesn't it? The nameplates, the market tables, the tulips in the flower beds…” Judai smiled, narrow at the edges. Their eyes met for a moment, and he wanted it to last, to drag out and out because, damn it, Judai's brown eyes were bright again, a pure light. “Hey, try not to tease me _too_ much, but I can't play the card I just drew. I don't have enough life points for the activation cost. Should’ve used Air Hummingbird a bit more, instead of trying to boost my Air Neos,” Judai said, laughing to himself. He shook his head. “Or maybe you were right about my dueling style. Next time, I'll use more monster cards. Ah, and I think I'll leave the Ojama brothers alone too, just to make it interesting.”

“J-Judai…”

“I couldn't keep those images out of my head, and I thought that I would hurt you more if I stayed.” Judai's smile widened, nervous. His eyes were trained on the floor, a hand running up the back of his neck. “Ah, you're going to yell at me, aren't you?”

“I'm beating you at this card game first,” Manjoume declared, and Judai's next laugh was louder, enough to scatter his thoughts and make his hands shake, no cards left. Nothing else was left.

“Right, that's how Manjoume Thunder _should_ answer. But…” Judai met his eyes again, slowly. Honestly. “I need to push past dark emotions like that. I can't let myself turn into a person I don't want to be, and I can't fail myself because I'm afraid of what could happen to someone I love.”

“We can take steps with Bell to make sure she's safe in the future. You shouldn't have to worry about her.”

Judai did not look away. “Manjoume, I wasn't just talking about Bell.”

A sudden silence.

And Manjoume, once he could _think_ again, started to compose a rant he could direct at Judai later as _payback_ for making his entire face burn with a deep blush, one that _had_ to be even darker when Judai, a complete moron even during a confession scene, just grinned at him, all dimples and white teeth.

“Does this count as a distraction technique? I might have a new strategy for our next duel,” Judai said while Manjoume, a shaking hand slapped over his face, tried to make it _stop_. Anything that he snapped out would be a stuttered mess. He added another sentence to his rant for later, the word 'imbecile’ _perfect_ to describe the hero-user that was his current opponent. 'Shameless’ also worked.

“Y-You're such a…”

Squishy little hands were batting at his knees, the Ojamas the worst possible audience for a situation like this. The tears from Ojama Yellow alone would have soaked through his jeans, not to mention all the snot.

And, seized by that disgusting image, Manjoume ripped his hand away and shoved a foot through his ace monster's stomach, resulting in a loud whine.

Good.

“Stop slacking off and get back on the field. Now.” He dared a glance towards Judai, which was a terrible mistake. Combining his high turtleneck, his long bangs, and a curled hand, Manjoume could hide most of his face again, on _fire_ and only getting worse, a trembling heat. “T-The same goes for you, slacker. It's rude to keep your opponent waiting, especially when your defeat is certain.”

“'Certain,’ huh…” Judai rotated his drawn card -- Chaos Trap Hole, capable of countering the summon of Ojama King and removing it from play at the cost of 2000 life points. Here, it was useless. On the field, Elemental Hero Neos faced the might of Ojama King, with Ojama Yellow hopping from foot to foot behind its trailing cape. “Let's see… I didn't say anything about leaving the Ojama brothers alone for _this_ duel, so I think I'll declare an attack now…”

“A futile struggle,” he rasped, a line that earned him a careless shrug from Judai. “Sure, declare your meaningless attack. The opponent your facing won't lose to such simple tactics.”

“...Should I enjoy it when you scold me like that?” Another shrug, and then Judai threw his arm out, the monster already tensing in preparation for the attack. Even under the effects of Ojama Country, Neos had a formidable 2000 attack points. “Neos, attack this defense-position Ojama Yellow. Show your heroic might! Wrath of Neos!”

Suspended, the gloved fist hung in front of Ojama Yellow's horrified face, and then it made contact in a shower of dispersed pixels, a display that Manjoume watched with a knowing sneer.

“How intimidating. You've taken out my leftover Ojama. Hey, hurry up and end your turn. If you behave, I promise to make your demise a quick one.”

“Ah, how could I turn a deal like that down?” Judai replied, and he lowered his outstretched arm. “Still, you shouldn't underestimate the power of one card. The outcome isn't determined yet.”

Snorting, Manjoume took his draw. “I'm toying with you. Don't take such flippant words so seriously.” A spell card, unplayable under these circumstances. An Ojama card could have been recycled using Ojama Country's effect, but the circumstances were acceptable. He held the advantage.

There was a strange contrast between the wayward paths and chipped steps of the village and the building they tried to blot out, an ugly testament to the past. Loose flower petals were strewn across the pixelated dirt, light enough to drift with the simulated wind, and Ojama King, across from Neos, waited for his command.

Behind Neos, Judai stood in a wrinkled t-shirt, jeans marked with clinging sand and dirt, and creased boots held together with tape, thread, and, because this was Judai, sheer luck. The pendant he wore, a sign of the Supreme King, hung loose, and it swayed as Judai leaned back. A playful smirk flashed, that of the too-brave and loud boy who Manjoume had followed down the shore of a distant island, freckles over the high collar of his faded red jacket.

“Ojama King, answer my call. Attack Elemental Hero Neos, and end this duel in my name, Manjoume Thunder.” He breathed in, and then he struck. “Go, my fusion monster!”

A mighty roar, and then, the crown high on that tall form, Ojama King lashed out with a single fist, coming down towards Neos with a terrifying strength, the village quaking and shuddering with each millimeter that it fell, meteoric. The chants of the Ojamas grew into frantic screams, and Neos braced itself, its forearms crossed and feet spread in a wide stance, as if that alone _could_ withstand the force that approached and approached, making the petals and stones of the village shoot away from the scene of the clash.

And then Judai shouted, his duel disk flaring with rainbow light. “When an Elemental Hero Neos that I control is destroyed by battle, I can banish the Illuminated Neospace Road in my graveyard to reduce my battle damage to zero and end the battle phase. Go, victory bridge!”

“You _what_?”

In disbelief, Manjoume watched a beam of star-filled light pour down from the ceiling, surrounding Neos just as Ojama King's punch connected. When the hero, reeling from the impact, began to fade, the constellation vanished, leaving Judai's field empty and Manjoume's attack unfulfilled, not _enough_.

Damn it.

“Sorry, but you're stuck with me for another turn,” Judai teased, and Manjoume leveled a glare at him, seething. How the _fuck_ had he missed that?

“Uhh… Boss? Didn't you check his graveyard or-”

“If I wanted your input,” he growled at Ojama Yellow, “then I would ask for it.”

“Wahhh! B-Boss!”

“Shut up…” With a heavy sigh, Manjoume pushed his hair back. Shit, that card had battle damage negation. A rookie mistake. “So, Judai, the situation becomes a test of your luck. For my sake, I hope you draw another copy of Neos, which would keep your field in its current pathetic state.”

Chuckling, Judai considered his borrowed duel disk, the surface scratched with win tallies. The sticker for a local card store was peeling underneath the monster zones. “I _would_ say that I need a 'Destiny Draw,’ but then you might mistake me for Edo Phoenix, right?”

“The only card that describes an impulsive fool like you is 'Rush Recklessly,” was Manjoume's immediate retort. But he had another task, the tension thick in the air. Victory was a suspended, fragile thing.

One draw could change it.

“I end my turn.”

Outside, the rain had intensified, a drumming sound that oscillated with the power of the wind, and the deck Judai held was far from ideal, its construction bearing the signs of anxiety, of the impulse to construct walls and keep them there. But, even with the flat arena between them, Manjoume could sense the sparks of the cosmic monsters curled within it, their devotion to Judai deep, fathomless.

Confident, challenging, those eyes raised from the drawn card, its edges sparking with restrained power.

The card was part of a constellation, its effect building off those stars that it brought together. And, seized by a sudden impulse, Manjoume braced himself, staring hard at the single card Judai held with a high grin.

The portrait showed Neos against the dark blue and blazing white of a swirling galaxy.

“Miracle Contact, a spell card. Shuffle into the deck, from your hand, field, or graveyard the fusion materials that are listed on an Elemental Hero Fusion that lists Elemental Hero Neos as a fusion material, then special summon that fusion monster from your extra deck, ignoring its summoning conditions,” Manjoume recited with a practiced scowl, his arms crossed. “On second thought, _this_ is the card that describes you perfectly, Judai.”

“Is...that a compliment?” Judai asked, and then he glanced down at the worn portrait. “We've been through a lot recently, and you were right. My dueling today hasn't reflected who I am really am, but with this card…”

It was perfect, the way Judai smiled at him. All walls were down, his own ripped away, and the force of the duel made the electric-like tension blur and change, spark and surge.

“Are you ready for this?”

He bared his teeth.

“Show me.”

The card hit the field, washed with the weak colours of the projectors and underlain by an ethereal light, a shimmering, changing power. “I activate Miracle Contact to special summon Storm Neos. Come out, my legendary hero!”

The storm outside held only a fraction of the raw, surging power of the spirit that unfolded itself, limbs and wings coming into existence as the rain continued to pound against the broken windows, wavering shadows passing over the bare floor below its tapered form. The massive, barbed wings peaked over sheets of blue armor, the edges sharp, and glazed eyes, surrounded by a hard-angled mask, took in Ojama King, a sudden gale pushing back its green cape and sending debris through the surrounding village.

The monster had extended its gleaming claws.

It waited in front of its master, and the downpour, the typhoon, would fall at only his command. A single word would change the duel, every second pressurized, making the eye contact stronger and stronger. Manjoume did not look away, not even when, to his very core, he knew what the result would be. Defeat was something he could rise from again and again.

Now, all he wanted was the clash -- himself and Judai, alone in a raging storm.

“I activate my monster's special ability to destroy all spell and trap cards on the field. Storm Neos,” Judai ordered, his pupils black shards, “unleash the ultimate typhoon.”

The village did not shatter, not like when Edo had struck it down with a crushing blow.

The wind ran through the curved tiers and bowed houses, taking their colours and forms with a ringing howl. Stones were worn into nothingness. Wooden beams vanished, the structures they supported following in smooth strokes, following the undeniable power of the flaring wind.

It remained in another dimension, safe and waiting for his return. The new crops would be growing still, Ojamas hefting pails of water and dripping the contents through the village square, starting too-loud arguments that ended in either laughter or petty rivalries. Ringed with a crown of flowers, Bell would follow them, a curious, chirping spirit who loved Judai.

Judai.

Manjoume felt himself grin. He shut his eyes for a moment.

“The tension here now, it can climb even higher. This…isn’t our greatest duel, not yet.” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Judai, I’ve sworn myself to you, so take out those unfitting cards and challenge me again. Challenge me with a new deck, and I'll take everything you can give me.”

A nod from Judai, given as his arm raised.

The footprints that had split the layer of dust were from them, and the air, heavy with moisture, rattling down his lungs with every deep breath, seemed to thicken as that declaration approached, second by second. Banded by shadow, the space between them sparked, and it was moving closer and closer, undeniable in its strength, its force. And, no, it would have been impossible to keep that jagged, serrated grin off his face, and Manjoume gave in to the pull of that emotion, to the magnetic drive of this duel. His stance was that of a proud rival. His shoulders were high, and anticipation curled and curled, tighter and tighter.

Judai would strike him down from this peak, and that would lead into their next clash, another whirlwind that he would meet Judai in the center of with his duel disk drawn, ready for the next clash, wanting it to hit as his opponent’s voice rang out and their eyes met through the intense torrent.

Judai breathed in, and the spirit drew back its long claws, its wings ready for the charge.

It hung in place, bond to Judai. His expression made the shadows draw back, set in reds and golds.

“Storm Neos, attack Ojama King.”

A single burst across the field, and then Ojama King was gone. Manjoume's life points hit zero, and the display on his borrowed duel disk clicked off.

He stood across from Judai, and _then_ he was crossing that narrow distance and gripping at Judai's shoulders, his head against Judai's chest. A hand ran up his back, warm where it pressed between his shoulder blades.

“Hey, let's go home,” Judai said, and Manjoume nodded.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some notes:
> 
> The Unhappy Maiden: This effect monster is used by Manjoume in the GX anime (episode 35). 
> 
> Destiny Draw: I mentioned this card during Edo’s duel with Manjoume. It’s used pretty extensively by Edo in the GX anime (Normal Spell / Discard 1 Destiny HERO card; draw 2 cards.). The whole idea of a “perfect draw” (Shining Draw, Draw of Destiny/Fate, etc.) comes up a lot in Yu-Gi-Oh, hence Judai’s comment.
> 
> Jar of Greed: This card was mentioned in Chapter 20, where Manjoume jokes to Judai that he’ll put it in his next deck since Pot of Greed is banned from the Pro League. Pot of Greed shows up a lot in the GX anime, and I think Jar of Greed shows up twice or so.
> 
> Dragon Capture Jar: Back in Chapter 21, I make a silly joke about an ‘Ojama Capture Jar’. Dragon Capture Jar is a fairly old card (Continuous Trap / Change all face-up Dragon-Type monsters on the field to Defense Position, also they cannot change their battle positions.), and I believe in shows up in DM during various duels with Pegasus and/or Kaiba.
> 
> Imperial Order: This card has changed quite a bit since its appearance in the DM anime. For my purposes here, I’m using the following effect for this continuous trap card: “As long as this card remains face-up on the field, negate the effects of all Magic Cards. Pay 700 Life Points during each of your Standby Phases. If you cannot, this card is destroyed.” The “your” changes to “the” is some later versions. In general, I tried to mix some cards that don’t match Judai’s usually bright/colourful/playful monster cards (Imperial Order, Chaos Trap Hole, etc.) in with some recognizable monsters and spells that he’s used throughout the anime (The HERO spell cards, Instant Neos Space, Miracle Contact, etc.). 
> 
> Illuminated Neospace Road: …This card does not exist! I decided that making my own card was the best way to stop my brain from exploding while keeping the plot where I wanted it. 
> 
> This card fulfills a similar utility as the anime-only Neospace Road (Normal Trap / Activate only when an "Elemental Hero Neos" you control is destroyed by battle and sent to the Graveyard. End the Battle Phase. Then draw 1 card from your Deck.) and Hero Spirit (Normal Trap / You can only activate this card during the Battle Phase of a turn in which a monster on your side of the field that included “Elemental Hero" in its card name was destroyed as a result of battle. Make the Battle Damage from 1 of your opponent's monsters 0.), both of which Judai uses at various points in the GX anime. 
> 
> The relevant effect for Illuminated Neospace Road would go something like this: “When an Elemental Hero Neos that you control is destroyed by battle and sent to the graveyard, banish Illuminated Neospace Road from the field or graveyard to reduce the battle damage to 0.” Some powerful recent Neos support cards use banish effects from the graveyard (i.e., Neos Fusion or Contact Gate), hence why I did the same.
> 
> General Rules: In general, I stuck with the anime-style approach to the duel here, and I consulted a 5D's-era rulebook a few times as well. Therefore, some cards, effects, and rulings probably aren't accurate to the current iteration of the game (i.e., face-up defense-position rulings differ between the early anime versus the current game). Because I gave myself a headache, this is as complicated of a duel as I could write. x______x
> 
> Duel School: It’s...probably extremely obvious that I started watching Arc-V again… 
> 
> …Make no mistake, we’re not done here!
> 
> There will be an epilogue!


	24. Brutal Necessity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was /supposed/ to be the epilogue, but… It’s long! It’s very long!
> 
> I guess there’s a few more chapters now!

\---

“Do you have a contact at Instant Duel Today?”

“Why would I associate myself with that gossip magazine? For a duelist of my position, it would be degrading.”

“Huh. I thought you'd be nicer to their staff, considering the cover and all.”

The backstage area for My Masked Duelist is a Celebrity?! was, in a word, chaotic, and the lead producer struggled to yell over the competing voices of his staff members, their lights, cameras, and scripts all juggled with hurried movements, verging on panic. And, balancing a water bottle between his palms, Manjoume concluded that no amount of staring at that bottle would transform it into a large coconut-cream latte with an extra shot of-

Wait, Sho had just said something.

“...What cover?” Manjoume asked, and the New Kaiser shoved a glossy magazine at his face.

His face was also frowning on the cover, in a tenfold collage of different angles, and the massive headline of “THE DUELING WORLD'S HOTTEST BACHELOR?? THE STORMY HEART OF THE THUNDER GOD!!! [ELECTRIFYING EYE-CONTACT IMAGES]” was given in full-bold yellow characters.

Coming off ten straight days of press interviews and prime-time duels, he was officially not-awake-enough for this bullshit, and his agency was _probably_ already setting their lawyers on the unfortunate media outlet for using unauthorized photos. Flagging down Misako was unnecessary, her phone by her ear while she made wild gestures at the lead producer, the backdrop evidently not to her liking. He let the pages slip through his fingers.

“Are...you expecting me to be surprised by this?” Manjoume asked, raising a thin eyebrow. “Obviously I'm gorgeous. If the public didn't appreciate that, I would be concerned.”

“I should have predicted an egotistical reaction like that,” Sho admitted with a heavy sigh, but then his energy came roaring back, the Vehicroids, curse them _all_ , honking in unison. “But, like, _I'm_ right here! I'm single! I'm on the prowl! Look, I'm even wearing cologne,” he announced before ramming a wrist under Manjoume's nose, some shoving involved.

Urgh.

It had been over two months since the New Kaiser, wielding Cyber End Dragon, had ended Manjoume Thunder's win-streak in front of a sold-out stadium crowd, the final flare of white-blue light engulfing the stands before shooting overhead, a testament to the raw energy that had overtaken them both and driven their rivalry to a new height. Their rivalry would change again soon, as the upcoming season would be Sho's last in the Pro League, the Cyber Art Duel League premiering in the winter. Its first three months of stadium dates were sold out. Ryo would serve as an analyst and, barring his doctors’ approval, one of the 'final bosses’ in the league's highest ranks.

Now, Sho, decked out in his embossed, cobalt-blue dueling jacket, a black-on-white cape spread between his silver pauldrons and ending at the tops of his dressage-style boots, sank his proud features into a childish pout and whined, “Losing a cover like that to Edo-kun is one thing, but losing it to _you_? Like, you're not even single! Where's your pride? Your outrage?!”

Manjoume flipped through the sections, most devoted to photospreads of himself in his dueling outfits, some spliced with commentary and candid photographs of himself at various restaurants and sponsored events. But he wasn't looking for himself, the person with the quicksilver eyes, dark hair, and prideful stance, able to command the cheers and chanted words of a surging crowd. Judai had started to grow his hair out, it falling in shaggy, wayward tufts, the longest brushing the nape of his neck, and their paths would cross again soon, twisting in close like the fibers of a taut rope. Sometimes the gaps were just days. Sometimes weeks.

Sometimes Manjoume noticed them, like when he was jolted out of sleep and reached out to feel only a sheet passing under his outstretched hand, the steady rise and fall of those shoulders somewhere else. Sometimes Judai was the one to call first.

But sometimes the distance meant nothing at all, his texts to Judai interrupted by Yubel's bad jokes and their petty arguments. Sometimes he caught himself wearing an unfitting, stupid grin as he looked out the window of a moving car or tracked the lift of a plane off its runway, and, in those moments, his thoughts would be on only one person, taking his own path in a different way.

After checking the back cover, Manjoume held the magazine out. As advertised, the photographs were all of Manjoume Thunder.

That practice would change soon.

“You'll give yourself wrinkles, glaring like that all the time,” Sho commented before snatching back the magazine, and he spread it across one knee, drumming his fingers on an open page. “Also, if there's some big rant coming, I'd appreciate a warning from you first. There should be earplugs in my travel bag…”

“One day I'll stop tolerating this behaviour from you. Enjoy it while it lasts,” Manjoume grumbled to himself. For a duelist ranked fourteenth in the world, he did not receive an adequate amount of respect from his peer at rank sixteen, who also _happened_ to be his former classmate, former roommate, and a major pain in the ass, especially outside the duel arena. Since the start of the latest Pro season, Sho owed him at least ten drinks and exactly five lunches.

Given their extended history, the probability of him getting anything back was extremely low.

“Uh… You're zoning out again.”

“No, I'm not,” Manjoume snapped back, and he settled against the bare wall, the buzz of voices and mechanical clangs sliding together. “Try saying something interesting, and maybe I'll favour you with my attention. Of course, that might be difficult for _you_ of all people.”

“Aaaand he's back to insulting me. Great.”

“You deserve it.”

Sho closed the magazine, and his expression changed. It tightened at the corners, and he squinted behind thin, wire-frame glasses. “So, when are you finally making the big announcement?”

“Friday,” Manjoume said.

“That's tomorrow.” A pause, and Sho considered the magazine again, blinking down at the cover. “Huh. The editor might regret using this title… I mean, they might have to reissue the whole thing.”

“Oh no. What a waste,” Manjoume grumbled, the thick sarcasm enough to make Sho frown, his white gloves creasing as he folded his fingers together. His deck holster was in blue and silver, the chain links shaped like a dragon’s scales.

“I should save this… It could be a collector's item in a few years.”

Manjoume snorted, and the blurred-out Vehicroids swirled around their controller, the short, hurried movements underlain by the smooth coils of a mechanical beast. In various states of disarray, the five Ojamas bobbed in midair, Ojama Red swatting at the ceiling in his sleep while the others snored and drooled. Because time ran differently in Ojama Country, it would be late there, the village silent and still in the hours leading up to its sunrise. Dew would gather on the flowerbeds. The small birds would wait on crooked branches for the first streaks of the morning sun before calling to each other, the chirps echoing down the village's makeshift paths and drifting in through its opened windows.

Sometimes Ojama Blue would stay with Bell, patting the top of her cracked shell as she babbled about wildflowers and berries, always encircled by an orange scarf and trailing long ribbons behind her. Her bushy tail wagged when she was excited, a mischievous glint behind her split, cat-like pupils. Now, Ojama Blue was curled next to Ojama Red, exhausted from the typical Ojama theatrics and random arguments that had extended through two flights, three recordings, and one fansign.

The break would be after the conference. He had the opening speech on his phone, every syllable approved by his agency. But, still, he-

“Is Aniki coming with you to the press conference or…?”

It took him a moment to process those words, the bottle swinging between his palms, and then Manjoume turned to the duelist next to him, his eyes narrowed. “No. I'm doing this myself. Judai doesn't need to be involved in the initial…” He paused, scowling at nothing. Eager reporters. Even more outside the venue, all craning heavy cameras above them. A cacophony of shutters. “Whatever. It's over soon.”

Sho stared at him, and then the moment passed. He let out a low whistle. “Woah, you've really matured, Manjoume-kun. I was ready for a speech on how 'totally irresponsible’ my Aniki is or, like, why 'this is something that only the Phoenix-Slayer Manjoume Thunder can do’.”

“If you're going to do an impression of me,” Manjoume said, sneering, “at least put some effort into it.”

Deftly, Sho ignored him, and he puffed out his cheeks, his chin balanced on his knuckles. His cuffs were embroidered with glittering scales, the silver crossed with blue and gold. “Didn't you and Aniki do an interview together before our big duel? I've seen clips from it, and he's good in front of the camera. Like, _really_ good.” Then, Sho added, “I was at _least_ rank fifty before I could answer a question without stuttering. Of course Aniki is a total natural…”

The joint interview had been his agency's idea, and Sho was right -- it _had_ been easy, the stoic interviewer breaking into giggles after Judai had made a terrible pun. But, still, he-

“There's a difference between an interview and an interrogation.”

“Ah, so there's your protective side…”

The shorter duelist made a loud squawk when Manjoume put him in a headlock, and it took three frazzled stylists to put Sho's braid back together, a process that Manjoume watched with a smug, vindictive satisfaction.

“Asshole,” was what Sho mumbled when they were given the signal, the stage lights on.

“Moron,” was what Manjoume hissed back after they had taken their marks, the hosts raising two microphones as the audience erupted into cheers.

\---

The premise for My Masked Duelist is a Celebrity?! was simple -- various members of the Pro League would disguise themselves and then enter amateur, low-stakes tournaments while a film crew trailed behind them, usually under the pretense of creating a documentary on the local dueling scene. Like Sho, Manjoume had filmed the main segment in advance, his own deck swapped for a swarm-focused fairy deck and a shaggy, blond wig obscuring his identity. That night, the hosts showed their selected clips to a panel of duelists and comedians, and Manjoume took more than a _few_ jabs about his sense of style, the disguise putting him in an oversized cable-knit sweater, cut-off jeans, and neon sneakers.

Therefore, that network owed him a massive favour.

In full self-promotion mode, Sho -- still dressed like the cross between a glitter-crazy band leader and an Arthurian knight -- always laughed louder than the other panelists and gave the quickest reactions, sometimes dropping in a reference to his Cyber Art style or, with an annoying frequency, his last victory over Manjoume Thunder. By the second hour of filming, the urge to challenge Sho right then and _there_ to a rematch was overwhelming, especially when that little _idiot_ shot a self-satisfied grin coupled with a victory sign in his direction.

That he had managed to spend almost six years in the Pro League without throttling one Marufuji Sho was a certified miracle. At the very least, he deserved a fucking medal for it.

Sho would scrunch up his nose when he wanted to interrupt the hosts. Unseen, the Vehicroids would rest by his feet, piled up and beeping to each other. The low rumble was from Cyber End Dragon, a flicker of silver behind Sho's profile.

And then the hours dropped away, Manjoume steering the conversation back to his favorite topic -- himself, obviously -- while Sho pouted and complained, the Vehicroids honking if the arguments went for too long. By the end of it, the Thunder v New Kaiser rivalry had entered a new stage, and as Manjoume followed his manager down a series of grey hallways, a pair of heeled boots clicked behind his dress shoes, the badges hanging from Sho's jacket clacking with every step.

“...Do you always walk this fast?”

“My legs are simply longer than yours, since I actually _finished_ puberty,” Manjoume said without looking back, and Sho immediately kicked him in the shin.

But Sho, persistent to a fault, still made it into his dressing room, lounging with his feet up on the couch and tapping at a puzzle game on his phone, the soundtrack looping in five-second segments, while Manjoume considered whether he should strangle Sho with a grey tie or a blue tie. That headline could be even bigger than the one he would make tomorrow night, throwing himself into the maelstrom and dragging someone else behind him like-

Fuck.

“You up for some dinner?”

It was Sho, currently upside-down with his knees hooked over the back of the couch.

Sneering, Manjoume adjusted his tie. “Will _you_ be there?”

“We could go to that really pretentious place you like where the prices are ten times what they should be, although…” Sho shrugged. “I have to be more specific than that, don't I?”

“Hey, you're not trying to steal him from me, are you?” Judai asked with a playful grin, his arm suddenly around Manjoume's shoulders and-

Wait.

_Wait._

“This...isn't how I'd imagined this,” Judai admitted, rubbing his stomach because Manjoume -- in a completely justified and faultless maneuver given that Judai was suddenly in the same room, not to mention on the same continent -- had jumped half a meter and rammed him with an elbow. Some coughing was involved. Strands of dark hair reached Judai’s cheekbones, curling in at the ends and scattering when Judai tilted his head back, the smile honest. Manjoume could feel it inside his chest, like the first-

Wait, no. He was pissed off.

Right.

“What, did you ditch your job for Pegasus? Judai, while I appreciate _any_ excuse to lecture you on your own stupidity, this is just pathetic.”

Sho, who had burrowed under Judai's arm like a demanding cat, piped up with, “Aniki, you know you're dating him by choice, right?”

Laughing, Judai straightened to his full height, and Sho squawked when his hair was ruffled.

“Hmmm… I guess you're not trying to steal him away then. Ah, I'm so relieved!” Judai exclaimed, and, despite the fact that one Manjoume Thunder was the subject of conversation, Sho burst into high-pitched laughter. He also dodged Manjoume's next swing at his head.

Bastard.

“What, _me_? Date _him_? No way! Seriously, Aniki, I don't understand how you can deal with all the yelling…”

“Don't act like I'm the difficult one,” Manjoume grumbled as he shoved his suit jacket on, and Judai, moving until his back was flat against the wall, chuckled a little, his arms crossed. A patched messenger bag was at his feet, a flight tag looped around the strap. The hiking boots and the wool sweater would have suited a different climate better, Fortunis alternating between spring rains and a tepid heat when the sky cleared. “So, you're just going to ignore my earlier question?” Manjoume asked with a well-practiced scowl, and Judai smiled at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

It was completely unfair, like dueling with a tenth of his opponent's life points and a borrowed deck. Simple plays became impossible.

Cards slipped away too easily.

“You haven't checked your phone, have you?”

“What are you talking about?” Manjoume snapped, and when Judai only shrugged back at him, he clicked his screen and swiped to his messages. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

What.

“Huh, no reception. Maybe your SIM card is broken,” Sho -- who was now hanging off Manjoume's arm and therefore standing much closer than _necessary_ \-- said, and his duelist-level reflexes were the only thing that prevented Manjoume's elbow from finding his ribcage and getting a solid hit.

“I finished up my assignment early, so Industrial Illusions put me on another flight.” Judai pushed off the wall. “Guess it turned out to be a surprise. Those...are good, right?”

The dressing room had cleared out, leaving only the four of them, and Misako spoke next in her 'Please don't ask any needless questions because I'm rushed’ voice,’ tapping out a text message at the same time. “I see that you caught the earlier train. Thunder, did you charge your phone? You should have received a text about this, just like the New Kaiser and I.”

“He's made of luck, so of course he'd get that train.” Sho was quick to find his ‘aniki’ and flop next to him, his blue hair shaking loose of its braid. “Years of experience told me that my aniki would be an hour early. Also, because of my superior deduction skills, I realized that Thunder here had no idea, and his reaction would probably be funny, so…”

“So you didn't say anything,” Manjoume confirmed, and his next 'reaction’ included his second attempt at strangling Sho that night, the Vehicroids honking in protest while the Ojamas jeered overhead. Because Sho fought with the finesse and grace of a cranky, half-awake toddler at the midpoint of an overnight flight, Manjoume stopped before Sho could resort to hair-pulling. Or biting.

Living together had been _fun_.

“Before you tried to kill me,” Sho yelped from behind Judai, “I _was_ going to invite you two out for dinner with my brother and I, since we're all in the same place for once. It would've been a lovely time. I was even prepared to get the bill.” When Manjoume snorted, Sho quickly added, “Okay, maybe I embellished a little bit, but…”

Judai had clapped a hand on his shoulder, and the grip of it was loose, his palm rolling back with every laugh and shifting the dark fabric below it. As Sho relayed, Ryo was visiting a cardiologist in Fortunis, and then the conversation circled towards the Cyber Art Duel League, Judai’s smile edged with some elusive _thing_ that Manjoume wanted to see again and again.

Maybe he had been away too long this time. Maybe he pressed back into the slight touch too much, Judai’s fingers curling in as a different smile ghosted across his face. Manjoume knew where the old scars on his jawline were by touch, the tangled ridges by its sharpest point on the right side, and, from there, he could have directed Judai’s chin back.

Curiosity brought a strong focus to Judai’s features, his eyes clear and flecked with a lighter brown, close to burnished gold. A greedy side of Manjoume had already tried to take over, to assert itself even though an exhaustion had set in, because, shit, it _had_ been awhile, their last kiss hurried in the gap between two flights, Judai taking a different connection. Those eyes had been molten gold, the colour gathering by his pupils in thick, unbroken rings. When Judai’s control broke, those shapes would scatter, like starbursts, and his fanged teeth would make their next kiss rough.

Manjoume had also discovered the hard way that phone sex with Yuki Judai was a guaranteed disaster, given that a certain hero-duelist would forget to charge his phone and the call would inevitably die at the worst possible time, leaving him with a dropped call, the view of his hotel-room ceiling, and the overwhelming desire to punch a wall. But they were close again, _and_ -

Manjoume blinked quickly. Extremely quickly.

He snapped out of it.

“-since the doctors think the stress from traveling could be a problem. But, I mean, it’s only a promotional tour, so I can totally handle it on my own. Easily.”

“But the Kaiser’s still helping out with the…stadium part. The…’Challenger Round’?”

Sho huffed. “Geeze, Aniki… Doesn’t Manjoume-kun tell you anything? It’s the ‘Cyber Challenger Round.’ I registered a trademark and everything! Do you have _any_ idea how much paperwork that was?!”

“Uh. W-Well…”

“We’ll have to stop by the apartment first,” Manjoume said, and he had the attention of the room, which suited him perfectly. He tilted his head back, his narrowed eyes on Judai. “While my name alone could get you into any restaurant in the city, you should at least try looking the part, Judai.”

Judai’s amusement flashed, an orange-green blur passing behind his irises. “Whatever you say,” he drawled, and Sho, bouncing on his heels, let out a cheer, that sound underscored by car horns and airplane engines. Following the original plan, Judai would have arrived two days after the press conference, after that event where he would have to hold his head high and take questions that would cleave into his pride, that he would have to grit his teeth through. A thousand times, his agency had assured him that it would be ‘fine’, a term too vague for his liking, too malleable.

Damn it.

Sighing, he shoved his bangs back. As it turned out, being famous came with many, _many_ complications. “Misako, this won’t cause any…’problems’ for tomorrow, will it?”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” she said.

“There will be paparazzi photos if the four of us are together, and the timing for the press conference is…precise.” The words were awkward, but he continued regardless, aware of the unusual, strained look Sho gave him. “I should avoid any situation that would complicate the narrative approved by our president and his company. Otherwise, it would be disrespectful. It wouldn’t suit my position as a top-ranked duelist or as a professional with his own responsibilities to carry.”

At first, Misako only stared at him. Eventually, she lowered her phone, and he had the weird, sneaking suspicion that, had the hour been later, had they both been pushed to their limits of exhaustion, she would have burst into surprised laughter. At the news of her recent promotion, she had beamed at him with a megawatt smile, and the sudden hug had been even more surprising than that.

“Thunder, our agency treats its duelists well. Given that your schedule for the day is over, there’s no reason to keep you from your friends.” She dropped back to collect her bag, jet black and peppered with distressed metal studs. The same motif was repeated in his latest dueling jacket. “If anything, our president would praise you for keeping up close relationships with other duelists, especially one with a high profile like the New Kaiser.”

“Like, can you work for me instead?” was what Sho piped up with, and Judai covered a chuckle. Badly. “My manager _never_ says stuff like that. ‘High profile’? Hey, Aniki, am I blushing?”

Ignoring him, Misako continued in the same level way. “While it’s true that the press conference tomorrow will gain a lot of traction in the media, our agency has constructed the narrative it needs to control the flow of that coverage. Going out to a restaurant won’t change the outcome, neither will being seen at a venue with your coach.”

A slight hesitation had marked his voice and posture. Anyone who knew him would see those edges.

No wonder Sho had been bothering him all day. The catalyst for that dinner -- an obvious distraction -- hadn’t been Judai’s visit at all.

\---

“Have you decided yet?”

“Uh…”

“I take it that's a 'no’?”

“Uh…” Judai scratched his head, his eyebrows pinched. “I...guess I could just point at something.”

“How are you _this_ hopeless?”

“Sure, I'm a fusion duelist, but fusion food can get way too complicated,” he said, and Manjoume decided to be merciful and _not_ kick him from under the table, their seats next to each other and opposing the Marufuji brothers.

As expected, Ryo epitomized dignity and class, the fall of his long, slate-blue hair regal against his shirt’s colder tones. With the heel of one hand below his pointed chin, he leaned into the table, his gunmetal eyes darting between them as the conversation continued, his own remarks few but always given with the same amusement, the harsh angles of his countenance restrained, subdued for this moment.

And then there was the _other_ brother, whose definition of 'formal’ desperately needed some revisions. Sho's teal blazer was a form of optical torture, especially when paired with high-waisted yellow trousers, cut above his ankles and revealing socks covered with tiny, rotating Vehicroids. Sho had opted for tan suede loafers to complete his dramatic attack on Manjoume's sense of sight, which contributed to the _outrage_ he experienced when Judai, with a causal laugh, said that Sho looked “pretty stylish” and had “dressed to impress”.

Judai had said those foolish things while sitting next to the one and only Manjoume Thunder, now wearing an all-black three-piece suit that had every millimeter agonized over by a fleet of world-class tailors. His cobalt tie passed over a fitted waist coat, the geometric pattern narrowing and intersecting as it reached down towards his hips, cut off by the thin line of his belt. Infused with a natural, enviable grace, he balanced a glass of wine in one clawed hand and angled his head towards the person next to him, who _really_ should be more grateful for the attention.

A lot more.

‘Ostentatious’ described the restaurant, named ‘SYNTHESIS’, perfectly, but if he was forced to use a shorter word for the Ojamas’ sake, then 'fancy’ would have sufficed. Sleek, the space flowed from one room to another, each bracketed by exposed columns and beams that were offset by the white-washed walls and their bold decorations, namely the renowned abstract paintings in reds and blues. Even a cursory glance revealed the high-status clientele around them, all pouring over wine lists and delicate appetizers with immaculate ease. Being photographed at the entrance had been inevitable, Judai sharing a low joke with Ryo, clasping an onyx cane, while Manjoume watched Sho pose for the cameras. He even went so far as to throw out leg out and point at his Vehicroid socks, a clear sign that Sho had a new merchandise line to move.

Manjoume had _briefly_ put up with the attention-mongering before shoving Sho through the entranceway. Trying to upstage Manjoume Thunder always had a steep price attached.

Between the Pro League's ever-changing ranks, the upcoming Cyber Art Duel League, and the increasingly vague descriptions Judai gave of his work for Industrial Illusions, the conversation had more than enough material to continue on, all without touching on the press conference directly. But every sentence of his speech had already been rammed into his memory. He had read those words over and over in dark hotel rooms, squinting against the light of his phone. The after-effects of the conference could be controlled, just variables in an equation. He _knew_ that, and yet-

“If you had a day even half as long as mine, you would feel just as tired, so drop it,” Manjoume said, answering the strained look Judai had been giving him. It was cute, although he would only admit that under pain of death.

“...Didn't you say you were going to take it easy after the duel with Edo?”

True, and Manjoume clicked his tongue. “Why would I trust _your_ judgement on this subject? Compared to an in-demand professional like myself, you barely work at all.”

With a cheeky grin, Sho piped up with, “Not as in-demand as me!”

The resulting argument carried them until dessert.

\---

And then Sho was twirling a spoon above a teetering layer cake while saying, “Aniki, why are you letting Manjoume-kun face all those reporters by himself? You're not dodging your responsibilities, are you?”

“Oi, oi. The yelling just stopped,” Judai said through a mouthful of jasmine-lychee compote and coconut sorbet. “If we have to argue again, I’d rather it be about cards. Like, you’ve seen the new set Pegasus is releasing next week, haven’t you?”

“That has to be the _worst_ deflection I’ve ever seen,” Sho declared, and Manjoume stabbed at his chocolate tart. The first strike of his spoon was ineffective. The second had the same pathetic result.

“Just drop it already,” he mumbled. “If I need moral support, I have the Ojamas. In comparison to them, I’m both a genius and a godly being. What more could I need?”

“That’s not what moral support should… Ahh, never mind… Getting through your ego is like punching a brick wall.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Ah, it’s starting again,” Judai said, and Ryo gave him a coded smile, which had the convenient side-effect of both drawing Sho’s attention and holding it. The chocolate tart suffered another blow.

From under the table, Judai knocked their legs together, and his smile was easy, languid. It made him beautiful in a way different from this place, as if the scent of the ocean could have followed them here, with bits of grass tangled in Judai’s hair, with the salt from the spray turning the ends of Judai’s sleeves stiff. And, trying to keep that feeling, Manjoume let his eyes close for a beat, Judai’s hand brushing his knee before drifting away, before straying further than he wanted it to.

The conversation had turned again, and Manjoume considered his untasted dessert, the initial presentation in ruins, while Sho explained with wide, proud gestures the format of his upcoming league. Beneficial to Manjoume’s sanity, the Ojamas had stayed inside their cards, the gaps between Sho’s words closed only by the soft warbles of Winged Kuriboh. The sound of Judai’s laughter settled in his chest, and maybe he craved it in a moment like this, his thoughts caved in by uncertainty.

“-should be perfect. After all, the competitors need to shine and show the crowd their true colours. Otherwise, the experience won’t be good for anyone.”

“True, but ‘perfect’ can become a limit rather than a goal,” Ryo said. “If we want to truly succeed, then, Sho, we must go beyond it.”

Sho rolled his eyes. “Stubborn as always…  

Judai’s elbows were on the table, and his answering grin was playful. “Well, the proud Marufuji brothers make for quite the dueling duo… I’ll be sure to watch your opening ceremony.”

“There will be consequences if you miss it, Aniki.”

“How scary…”

“What’s really scary is that Manjoume-kun has apparently lost his voice. Otherwise, he’d be all ‘Thunder this’, ‘Thunder that’.”

Indicative of the late hour, the tables around them were filled to capacity, the waiters flitting between them with glittering bottles and trays stacked with carefully arrayed dishes -- decadence was paired with ingenuity. Together, Manjoume Thunder and the New Kaiser had dined here before, and the evening had devolved into an insult-based match of wits, its final incarnation as a battle of who would pay the bill -- Manjoume or not-Manjoume.

Predictably, their current table drew many interested glances, and he shouldn’t have recoiled against that focus, as if such a thing could be dangerous to him now, here in this moment. Judai had swapped out the thick sweater for that black button-down shirt, the cuff length incorrect. The shoulders could have been taken in.

Judai’s leg stayed pressed against his.

“If that frown sticks to your face, you can say goodbye to getting any of the big sponsors,” was what Sho mumbled at him next, and the concern was obvious, _so_ obvious that Manjoume clicked his tongue as a warning. “Like, who would want to see _that_ on a billboard. I’ve ever heard Kaiba Corp is scouting for some new duel event, so… That’s insider info, by the way. You can thank me later.”

He had an insult ready for Sho, but then it dropped away. Maybe it was the stress. Or maybe his brain had latched onto some old theory and then dredged it up from memory. Or maybe he had absolutely _no_ idea where the thought came from, but suddenly he was jerking his chair back and pointing at Judai.

“Uhhh…” Judai began with his usual eloquence.

“I figured it out. The mind of a genius is never still.”

“Manjoume?”

“The reason why Kaiba challenged you to that duel,” he stated, and he gave Judai the smile of a victor, well-practiced and taunting. “He wanted you to communicate with his dragons, didn’t he?”

With his customary restraint, Ryo only cocked a thin eyebrow while Sho promptly choked on his layer cake, the hand gestures wide-reaching and, in Manjoume’s humble opinion, hilarious, especially when they knocked over Sho’s cocktail.

At first, Judai said nothing, his only response a low hum, and then he leaned back in his chair, his head tilted to the side. And, shit, it wasn’t fair at all -- for a single look from Judai to still be this strong, amber flecked with gold. “You’re close,” Judai said, teasing in his own way. “When other duelists find out about the Gentle Darkness, they usually want the same thing.”

“I’m taking this as a victory.”

“Hey, hey. We’re not dueling, are we?”

And the symmetrical, calculated layout of their table suffered another blow when Sho, sputtering, smacked a hand on top of it. “T-Time out! You dueled Kaiba?! Like, _the_ Kaiba and not that spirit version from the ice cave?”

“Ice cave?” Judai repeated, and Sho gawked at him, indignant. 

“How could you forget that?! And… Never mind! You dueled _him_? When? Why?!”

“W-Well… If I say too much, Ultimate Dragon might hunt me down, so…”

Frowning, Sho turned to face Manjoume. “I take back everything I ever said about you. Nothing is _worse_ than Aniki when he forgets to tell me important stuff, like… Like a duel against-”

“A duel that’s supposed to be a secret,” Judai said, and Sho closed his mouth. Briefly.

At his brother’s side, Ryo waited, the interest clear, and, belated, Manjoume caught himself wondering why Ryo’s latest deck was so heavy with dark-attribute, warrior-type monsters, acting like shields to protect the carefully selected Cyber dragons and mechanical beasts. It was an evolving deck that Ryo carried, reflecting the truth of his life.

All of their decks traced their pasts, and they extended into their futures.

“Does…this mean I have to duel you before you’ll tell me about my cards?” Sho asked, and Judai said nothing, Winged Kuriboh high on his shoulder. The din of the surrounding conversations faded away.

“The core of that deck, the heir to the Cyber Art,” Ryo began, his voice even and strong, “is insatiable. Therefore, it won’t respond to half-hearted duels and indecision.”

Slumping in his chair, Sho sighed. “Yeah, I know. It’s just that…the cards feel different lately. There’s a pressure to them, like a weight.” He pushed back his loose braid. “Aniki, you understand me, don’t you?”

Silent, Judai considered his response, his arms folded across his chest. A forked shape in green pressed through one iris, and then it vanished. His eyelashes were dark.

“Sho, do you ‘think’ those card can take the pressure or do you ‘know’ they can?”

“What a cryptic question. Are you trying to be helpful or not?” Manjoume asked, but then Sho surprised him. The gaze was steeled.

It was that of a powerful duelist, memories of stage lights and a pulsing crowd suddenly close, as if the drifting smoke from the pyrotechnics was still dissipating between them on that high stage, Cyber End rearing its many heads back for a direct attack.

“That deck, it belongs to only one person, so there’s no reason why it would listen to me,” Judai said, and Sho nodded.

“Right. This is the deck my brother entrusted to me. I wouldn’t play with any other cards, no matter what the stakes were.”

Ryo glanced at his brother. “There’s your honest ambition, and it’s the answer to your hesitation in the present and the future as well.”

Pouting, Sho added, “Sure, but I thought Aniki would do some cool spirit stuff if I bugged him about it, especially because Manjoume-kun never does anything like that. Well, he talks to himself constantly, but it gets boring pretty quickly. He also screams too much.”

“I _what_?”

“You’re just proving my point, idiot…” Before Manjoume could make his elegant and composed retort, Sho changed the subject, which reflected his inability to be serious about _anything_ for more than thirty seconds. Even that estimation was generous. “Come on… Can't you, like, tell my fortune?”

“I...could try?” Judai replied, and he laughed at Sho's indignant look. “Ah, I'm disappointing you, aren't I?”

“You should charge him for that service,” Manjoume added, and _then_ that look was on him, Sho resembling a fluffy, puffed-up bird.

“Excuse you, but I'm paying for our night out! That counts! It totally counts!”

“As if that's going to happen…” Manjoume mumbled. The look intensified. “Fine, _fine_. Since I'm so generous, I'll do it for you. Ambulanceroid says that you should show a superior duelist like myself more respect, since there _is_ a notable difference in our skill levels. Oh, and Truckroid and Cycroid want you to stop dressing like a total-

“H-Hey! You liar, cut it out!” Sho barked, but his high volume didn't make Manjoume scowl half as much as the sudden blare of two horns and the aggressive clang of a bell. The sirens were next. Fantastic.

“Hmmm… He's right, Sho. Truckroid is very opinionated,” Judai said in an easy drawl, and his low smirk only riled Sho up even more, his pout extreme. It also had the side effect of making _all_ of the Vehicroids pop out of thin air and descend on their table with more honks and clangs. At some point, Judai burst out laughing, his dimples flashing, and then Manjoume joined in. His hand slipped away from his face.

“Shesh. The two of you are _perfect_ for each other.”

“Wow. Thanks for the compliment, Sho,” Judai said, and Ryo coughed, covering up a laugh.

“Not you too, Nii-san…”

\---

They left the brothers on the sidewalk, Ryo throwing a long scarf over his shoulder while Sho waved at a cluster of waiting fans, his enthusiasm manifesting as a trail of transparent, shifting Vehicroids, the glide of a metallic tail passing between their tires and curling out of sight. The streetlamps threw cuts of orange-yellow over the brothers, the brightest tones catching on Ryo’s profile and Sho’s glasses, obscuring his eyes as, laughing, he took a marker from a fan, the next in line balancing an autograph booklet.

Sho had actually paid.

Maybe they had fallen into another dimension by accident. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

Even with the tinted windows, all he dared was to press his leg against Judai’s again, letting the quiet drag for as long as it could in the backseat of their corporate car. The procedure would be outdated soon -- letting Judai out at a different block of apartments, the parking garage linked to his own by a service elevator. The necessity of it had been an insult, and it still was, even with Judai’s close and outlined by washes of soft orange and streaks of white-red, the dark pierced by the constant move and buzz of the city around them. The car took another corner.

Despite Judai’s penchant for wearing highly visible red jackets, the circling paparazzi and curious fans had never made the connection, but they _could_ have, easily. A lack of precautions would have resulted in chaos.

He knew that implicitly, and yet -- drawn to the slide of Judai’s bare fingers down the glass, beaded with rain -- a choked desire made him want to pin Judai to the window or, if nothing else, lean his forehead against Judai’s chest. In airport terminals, restaurants, and side-street cafes, he had watched Judai step back with a stark hesitation, their hands kept apart. It should not have felt like shame, acidic and plunging his annoyance deeper, making him grit his teeth.

When the car stopped, Judai threw one leg out before glancing back.

“See you, Jun-chan.”

“Whatever. Just hurry up.”

“I’ll try my best,” was all Judai said before closing the door with an audible click and striding towards a different apartment building, his hands in his pockets. Overcast, the clouds had gathered in thick blocks, likely to break apart once the morning hit, but no storm had grown in the collected cold, not like during their duel in that empty arena.

Of course they had dueled again -- ridiculous bets, cards lying flat on a table while Judai, between turns, flipped things on the stove and hummed to himself, dark eyelashes lowered in concentration. Although Manjoume, with the subtlety that suited one in his position, had left _many_ printed-out apartment listings on Judai’s side of the bed and forwarded him a _convincing_ number of images of infinity pools and perfectly-staged bedrooms, the apartment they shared was still the same -- crowded with demanding, low-attack spirits and a fraction of the size it should have been.

One change was that Yubel had dragged more books into the apartment, leaving them in piles on the dented coffee table and clipping the covers with their sharp nails, the indentations triangular and thin. The sketchbook shoved under the couch was Judai’s, the penciled figures drawn in while Manjoume watched the reruns of major duels, always shoving at elbow at Judai when the one and only Manjoume Thunder appeared. Black coat, silver embellishments.

The Kuriboh mug moved around the kitchen. Judai left his jackets _everywhere_. Because Judai still borrowed his grey scarf, pulling it high enough to cover his chin and letting it trail behind him, it now carried his scent. Reminders in a messy scrawl found their way onto his nightstand. Sometimes he took Judai’s red phone charger by accident.

Outside the apartment building were reporters, of course, and Manjoume brushed them off with a deep scowl and a raised arm. Inside, the lights were off, and the spirits had stayed inside their cards, the hour too late for them. After throwing his coat on the couch, he opened the bedroom door.

Empty.

He had arrived first.

Striding over to the bed, he kicked his shoes off before sitting on the edge. The stiff words inside his head had been written by someone else, and tomorrow he would have to say them with a controlled expression. Any deviation would be visible, controversial. A thousand critiques could be made, _irritating_ even if they were pedantic and misguided, and, clicking his teeth, Manjoume leaned back on the heels of his hands. That impatience thickened.

Eventually the door clicked open, the next sound the thump of Judai’s boots in the hallway.

“Hey, I’m back!”

“Took you long enough.”

“Ah… ‘Welcome home’ would’ve been more charming...”

How predictable. “Please, Judai. Don’t tell me you’re foolish enough to expect that from me.”

Still, he raised his stare when Judai leaned against the doorframe with his hip, the cuffs of his dark shirt rolled up, and, if Judai’s concentration broke, his strength could slip into the inhuman, Yubel’s claws teasing the ends of his short, blunt nails. Before Thunder v. New Kaiser, with the stadium lights flaring on the ceiling of their hotel room, Judai had dropped to his knees with a grin that, alone, would have been enough to make Manjoume shake, but that feeling had been nothing, fucking _nothing_ , compared to Judai’s open mouth.

Bold, Manjoume let his eyes drag up Judai’s chest, and it just made the urge even stronger, sink even deeper. The loose buttons showed the angles of Judai’s throat, set in hard, dark lines, _and_ -

“You don't have to do the press conference.”

-and now he let his palm smack against his forehead. Somehow, he was still amazed by how _tactless_ this self-proclaimed master of Duel Monsters could be.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am serious,” Judai said, and then he shrugged, careless. “If it's getting to you that much, then just don't go. Simple, right?”

Wrong. Completely and utterly wrong.

Manjoume sat straighter than before, and he held Judai’s gaze, the challenging part of him somewhere behind it. Circling, like a bird of prey flying high, waiting for its moment. The strength showed through, turning like the tapered shape of a wing, ready for its dive.

The flecks of gold could part the warm brown like barbed feathers, elongated and sharp.

“All your advice tells me is that you wouldn't last a _day_ in my position,” he snapped back, and when Judai pushed off the doorframe, the slope of his shoulders was low. Gold cracked the brown, veins of a different colour, and that focus had only changed, not vanished.

“Well, there are _other_ ways of letting your fans know…” he drawled, and he stopped less than a meter away, his head tilted to the side. “We could take some pictures for your fanpage.”

“... Pictures?”

“Or maybe a video would work better.”

When Manjoume stiffened, biting words already on his tongue, every movement was watched carefully. Judai’s pupils were dark.  

“I…” Damn it, and Manjoume inhaled fast. “I-If you want to be useful, Judai, then come over here.”

Somehow, Judai did the _opposite_ , and then he laughed a little, rocking back on his heels as a hand passed through his wayward bangs. “Hey, hey… I'm more than just a distraction to you, right? I might get insecure…”

“You talk too much.”

“Ah, really?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Hmmm…”

And _then_ Judai was over him, one knee between his legs and the other by his hip, pressing into the bed. And, for a pause, the silence fragile enough that it could shatter from a single hard breath, Judai didn’t reach for him, his hands slack at his sides while those eyes took in his glare. He glared because Judai, a slacker even now, was _slow_ , and although he wanted to take the pace for himself, to make it spike just because he _could_ , he kept his body as it was, caged by that of someone else. An overwhelming shadow.

Under that gaze, Manjoume shuddered, as if they were still within the raging wind and rain of that storm, as if they were still within the seconds after the walls had been ripped away and torn into nothing. When the projections had cut out, leaving them alone in the damp, grey dark of that hollow place, he had gripped Judai’s shoulders, but Judai had been the one to kiss him first, the words left unsaid.

Here, he waited until Judai shifted closer, the curve of his jawline achingly beautiful, and then Judai tilted his head back and crossed the narrow distance, the first brush of their mouths a spark, a contact that twisted something in the air. A starlight sky, pulsing with distant lights. An absolute silence, and it continued as Manjoume pushed closer, Judai letting the contact drag out.

And then Judai was leaning against him, their foreheads together, and every breath seemed to draw Judai in, until Manjoume was on his elbows, deep under the shadow Judai cast. The dress shirt rasped with any quick motion, the fabric gathering in steep curves between Judai’s shoulder blades, raised like the beginnings of his wings. Fallen loose, the pendant marked the center of Manjoume’s tie, and, with a breath, it rolled further down his chest.

Everything about this person had captivated him, even the spiderweb cracks he could see as clearly as the healed-over scars and faded burns, as the faint flickers of Yubel’s scales over Judai’s sharp features. Judai’s mouth was in a tight line.

Sagging against the bed, Manjoume started with, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit that doing an event like _that_ isn’t my favourite thing, but it’s necessary. I’ll get over it, and…” He directed his scowl at the ceiling. “Listen, if the pressure is too much, or if the attention that happens after is hard to take, then just fucking tell me. I mean it.”

There was a low sound from Judai, a whisper close to his neck.

“Running away like that… How…can you forgive me so easily?”

“It wasn’t _easy_ ,” he retorted, and, provoked, he batted at Judai’s arm with one hand. “Oi, did you seriously forget that lecture I gave you? _That_ would be unforgivable.”

To deal with the nervous energy, he drummed his fingers on Judai’s shoulder, his other arm braced next to Judai’s own. The sheets still had Manjoume Thunder insignias, obviously. Most nights, Judai slept in shirts plastered with ‘GO THUNDER’ or the names of obscure cities, the letters faded.

The fabric of the dress shirt smoothed out under his touch, and he felt Judai exhale, the body above his own arching, something about the proximity overwhelming even now. The slight ridge below his palm was one of the parallel scars.

“I would clip my own wings, making it so I couldn't leave like I did before, but then I...would be acting like someone else,” Judai muttered, and the edges of those words didn’t fit together, their meaning not clear yet, but Judai still continued, his eyes flaring with amber-red. “Manjoume, since the moment I saw you at Fortunis, I’ve done nothing but rely on you, even when I shouldn’t.”

“We’ve talked about this before. Why would my answer change?”

“Yeah, but-”

With a massive sigh, Manjoume let his arm give out, flopping back onto the bed, and then he dragged Judai with him. Some weight was placed on the wrong limbs. Their foreheads almost knocked together, but he didn’t fucking care, already launching into a rant that Judai, his unfortunate captive, _had_ to endure.

Tough luck, Slifer.

“Do I really _have_ to put this in dueling terms for some battle-obsessed idiot like you? Every great rivalry has its beats, the pushes and the pulls, otherwise the whole thing is just one-sided. And, well, I don’t know what _you_ have planned, but I won’t put up with such a meaningless arrangement.”

“Okay, okay, can you just-?”

“Does it _sound_ like I’m done?”

Chuckling, Judai propped his chin up on Manjoume’s chest, just below the knot of his slackened tie, and- Damn it. A single _look_ and his next words were gone, completely _gone_.

For revenge, he shoved Judai off.

“See, now it seems like you’re done.”

“…No.”

“No?”

Fuck, what was he talking about? Rivalries. Great rivals. “Uhh… Every great rivalry is…a series of pushes and pulls, a give-and-take struggle that…” At the sound of Judai’s bright laugh, he trailed off, scowling. “Although, right now I just want to take from a smug idiot like you.”

“Oh?” Propping himself up on his elbows, Judai stared at him, his eyebrows raised. “Well, that might be a challenge.”

“Not for me.”

A confident smirk, and the air changed. An energy crackled, running hot.

“Try it.”

With a snarl, Manjoume went over him, pinning him to the bed with both hands while he pushed his tongue into Judai’s waiting mouth, and their hips were tight, Judai’s rolling up between his spread thighs, and- Fuck. _Fuck_ , he sank into the contact, taking more and more of Judai’s mouth even as the pace increased, that electricity inside his head. It surged white-hot, and here, like this, he growled when their hips rocked together, Judai’s palms testing the strength of his own.

The taste of Judai’s chapped lips was sweet, and even _sweeter_ was how Judai’s next breath hitched.

They had already fucked twice.

Because the first time had been a disaster, Manjoume had tried to erase it from his memory, to cross out the twisted, embarrassing details like a wrong answer made in pen, but, no. His recall was too fucking good, honed by years of interviews and speeches, and maybe, if he was lucky, some small amount of Judai's own stupidity and forgetfulness would impact him and wipe out just _that_ memory -- a single night in a hastily booked hotel room, sticky lube sliding down his parted thighs before, freezing, his heartbeat growing louder and _louder_ , he had shoved Judai off and turned on the shower. A pause, and then Judai's fingers had trailed over his back, the questions next. He had ignored them at first, aware that the water was too cold.

But the second time was different, partially because he had to argue with Judai for twenty minutes to confirm that, yes, he _actually_ wanted to try again, something guilty making Judai's voice quiet and the motions of his hands controlled, distant even when they rounded his jawline, curving up to his ear. It was different because, while he had still pushed Judai away -- some part of his chest squeezing too tight when Judai thrusted in, completely inside and gasping over him -- it had almost felt-

“Jun-chan?”

Maybe it could be worth it. Maybe he could handle it when Judai, shaking into their next open-mouthed kiss, continued to move into him.

Maybe Manjoume was more than just curious, those images flashing when he looked down at Judai's lean body, under his own and matching every roll, every grind of their hips together. There should be more skin.

This wasn't even close to enough.

He had released Judai's hands, and, flitting down his sides, they stopped at the line of his belt. Spurned on, taken in by the focus sharpening behind Judai’s narrowed eyes, Manjoume started on his slackened tie, letting the smooth fabric coil and then fall through his spread fingers.

“You shouldn’t call me that ridiculous nickname if you want more from me tonight,” he said, and, slowly, Judai’s hands moved down, passed over his belt, and then shifted back. Those pupils were wide, slashed with burnished gold. A captive audience, and Manjoume dropped his tie.

Judai’s word were next, deceptive in how calm they were. Tension made his fingers dig in. “Ah, did you have a change of heart? What happened to you ‘taking’ from me?”

With a stiff motion, Manjoume forced his collar open, the next buttons slipped out of place with one crooked hand, and he kept going down. “Oh, I will be taking something from you, Judai,” he drawled, and his knuckles brushed the hollow of his ribcage, the dress shirt sliding open, gathering on his shoulders. Those hands were on his ass, and Judai was hard, hard between his spread legs. “Your composure, for one thing. You won’t be able to look away from me, will you?”

Intensity sank his voice. It bared his teeth, that smirk widening when Judai’s hands clenched, and Manjoume pulled at his belt next, making the simple motion take longer because he wanted to, because he _could_ , and-

Judai kissed him, hard. Fanged teeth dragged over his bottom lip, the fingers digging into him rough and jagged, and, matching _everything_ , he pushed back. Palms ground against his ass.

“You’re not playing fair at all,” was what Judai rasped across his open mouth, and his belt was off, his fingers clawed into the back of Judai’s shirt. A memory flared, one of Judai licking a searing line down the shaft of his cock with a perfect grin, drawing out a gasp that, shuddering, Manjoume couldn’t choke back, not when it was that good, as if they were within the final arch of a heavy storm. The gold had scorched through the amber, pulsing with every greedy, slow drag of Judai’s tongue.

He worked on Judai’s shirt. “S-Shut up. You’re the one not keeping even with me. I don’t want to hear such critiques from _you_.”

The pants were more of a pain, but then he was over Judai again, stuck in the arrogant act even though it was being hammered to pieces, the next kiss teasing out a groan from Judai that went straight to his cock. Scars textured Judai’s jawline, passing under his thumb, and some of the ridges were inhuman, flashes of scales and leather-like seams, and-

And then Judai’s hands were under the waistband of his boxers and grabbing his ass, forcing their hips to connect at a different angle, his own moan given through clenched teeth. Judai smiled against him, the next kiss pressed into the hollow of his throat. It had been restrained, considering the colour -- the shards of burnished gold -- that burned close to the black, as if it could be consumed.

“We’re past this stage, aren’t we?” Judai muttered against his bare skin before yanking his boxers down and then grabbing his cock, the first stroke like a jolt of something hot and wild that took his next breath. Nights alone in hotels rooms were nothing like this, as if the warm beat of the shower against his back could be another person, but Judai scattered _that_ thought so easily, his smile indulgent even though, because he was a fucking _bastard_ , the next stroke was short. His fingers were loose. “Although, if I go further than this, you might complain again. I won’t be keeping up with you like that.”

Requiring absolutely _no_ encouragement, Manjoume tried to shove him away, but Judai distracted him, diving in for another rough kiss, his fingers grasping at nothing as Judai worked his own boxers off, his hip bones leading down to his stiff, flushed cock, and-

Overwhelmed, Manjoume panted, struck by every stark line of Judai’s body, his tensed thighs bringing in slanted shadows. Golden skin, every movement Judai made pressing into him. Blown pupils.

A frantic kiss, Judai moaning loud and deep into his open mouth. But he was the one who shattered when Judai sucked on his bottom lip again, the pressure too much, and his act was down, _gone_ while every shudder was taken in by those piercing eyes. Sweat trailed down his bare chest, followed by that gaze, and he flinched when Judai stared at his spread legs, the intensity almost too much to take.

Almost.

This wasn’t it, not yet.

“H-Hey, we could…” Damn it. He blinked, loose bangs falling over his forehead and in front of his eyes, and Judai was close again, nuzzling where his neck met his shoulder, a mouth dragging over his collarbone. The distraction did not help, not when he needed to get the words out.

Another twenty-minute argument about it would be extremely annoying. Judai’s teeth grazed his skin, a hand sliding over the arch of his back.

“Judai, I…”

“Hmm? Something wrong?” The tone was light, and those eyes were on him again, meeting his own.

“No, but it’s… I-It’s obvious, isn’t it?” he muttered, and Judai waited for him, unblinking. “H-How are you _this_ dense? Do you…really just want to hear me say it?”

“Say what?”

He shook his head. “You’d know if I wanted to stop, so I…”

And then it clicked for Judai, the fingers that had been shifting over his ribs freezing in place, although the tone of his voice stayed the same -- an infuriating trait, especially in a situation like this. Pulsing, the energy shifted, the thin branch of a different kind of lightning.

“Manjoume, are you sure?”

At least Judai had dropped the nickname.

“If I wasn’t, why would I bother saying anything?”

“Alright, alright. I get it,” Judai said, smiling a little, and he leaned back further, his shoulders against the headboard. Dragged with the motion, Manjoume straddled him, and next slide of their hips together was smoother than before, enough to make him bite back a ragged sound while Judai watched. The control was annoying. Judai’s next _words_ were annoying. “Still, last time, it wasn’t-”

Something rattled when he surged forward and kissed Judai, clasping Judai’s shoulders for support and, groaning, letting his cock press against Judai’s stomach, _any_ contact driving him forward. He would take anything Judai gave him, and the bite of those pointed canines made the intensity shift, Judai pushing into his mouth and, fuck, getting the lead and then _keeping_ it. Bare skin, beaded with sweat. When he moaned, the muscles below his thighs clenched, like a wire being pulled taut, being stressed to its breaking point.

Any restraints should be split open.

Against Judai’s mouth, he whispered, “I’m asking you to fuck me, Judai. Are you really foolish enough to turn me down?”

No immediate response, and the grin that spread across Manjoume’s face was wolfish, blood pounding inside his head. Judai’s rigid cock twitched against his thigh.

He continued.

“Don’t act like you haven’t been thinking about me that way. I can tell. I can read every part of you,” he rasped, and he felt it, the way Judai had shifted. His fingers had clenched. “I’ve already told you, haven’t I? That composure you hold so dearly, I’m going to tear it down, piece by piece.”

They were close enough to kiss, but Judai didn’t cross the thin distance, his breaths short and fast. He shook when Manjoume, grinning even wider, rolled his hips down, as if testing the person under him. Which he was, definitely. Impatience made him grind again, and this time Judai hissed in response, his head moving back and exposing his long, bared throat. Steep shadows. Hard angles.

The gold hung as two half-moons, and then he watched that colour eclipse everything else.

\---


	25. Eclipse

\---

The dark sheets contrasted with Judai’s skin, especially that over his high cheekbones, marked with red. Freckles dashed his chest, two on his hip and another on the inside of his thigh, and the cherry-red condom wrapper stayed near him, carelessly thrown to the side. The contents of the box had slipped out, as if they really were going to fuck their way through twenty-four condoms in one night. The lube had made Manjoume’s right hand slick, dripping down to his wrist and clinging to where he had clenched the sheets.

And he wanted Judai there, against the bed and staring up at him as his chest heaved, as Manjoume grabbed his cock and made it slick. He had prepared himself while Judai had been made to watch, nothing else.

Maybe he was a sadist after all.

Ripples of shadow pooled in the hollow of Judai's collarbone before extending down like drops of rain, tracing his chest and curving over his hips. Sometimes Yubel’s dark, languid chuckles had brushed the closing gasps of Judai's moans, but the gold stayed as the dominant colour, uncontested.

“You really want this, don't you?” Judai asked, and his right hand was on Manjoume's hip, tracing absent circles. His eyes were on Manjoume's face, nowhere else. “Although, now you're going to snap at me for asking a 'foolish’ question.”

“Not even close,” Manjoume said with a sneer, but the tremors remained, wracking his body because, fuck, he _did_ want this. The desire was deep, absolute, and every flare of those eyes made it dig in.

Judai's flushed cock was in his hand, the sheen from the lube that clung to his tight fingers. The red was strong against the gold, but it could go darker than this, and Manjoume licked his lips. He let his fingers slackened.

He moved himself over Judai, two hands on his hips, their pressure slight.

“I…” Try again. He knew this image would be seared into him, that of Judai spread out below him and waiting to fuck, pupils wreathed in gold. “I-I...would've said nothing like that, since I'm going to show you what I want, Judai. Pay attention. Don't look away from me.”

“I won't. I-”

And then Judai's grip tightened, his words broken by a sudden gasp, his head thrown against the sheets, because Manjoume was taking in his cock and letting his legs spread apart, his own breathing unsteady, but-

Fuck.

 _Fuck,_ he kept going, and Judai shuddered for him, faster and faster as he took more in, and-

He liked this. Panting, his bangs dripping over his wide eyes, he knew that he _liked_ this, and Judai's expression was open, completely open. The red was darker than before, intoxicating.

Because he had stopped, an unintentional action, Judai made the wrong interpretation, his voice tight. “H-Hey, am I hurting you like this?”

Manjoume could have laughed, angling his head down. “If you were, you would hear about it. I've already made enough exceptions for s-someone like you.”

No, it didn't hurt, but the pressure was different, strange, and Judai's hands rounded his hips bones again and again, the fingers against him reverent.

Anything less would have been an insult, and, seized by that thought, he breathed in and then shifted his hips down further, stretching himself over Judai, and the _sounds_ -

They were something else, Judai staring at him through glazed eyes. The hips under his own were shaking, holding as still as they could, but he -- unable to keep the smirk from cutting into his face -- was taking Judai apart, second by second, movement by movement.

Perfect.

“Y-You're serious when you say that…” Judai stopped, and his fingers followed the motion when Manjoume jerked his hips up before pushing back down, the red stark on Judai's face. “This _really_ doesn't hurt you? So, then, I can-”

“I already know what you want,” Manjoume said, sneering, and he tried it again, up and then down. A growl from Judai, who still held back, even though his right hand had clawed, nails tight to bone. A demanding presence. “You want to take control. You want to fuck me at your own pace.”

But-

But then Judai grinned, a curved shape below the pulsing gold of his eyes, and Manjoume, stunned, felt his next breath catch.

“Not even close,” Judai repeated, and then the position was different, the _feeling_ was different because Judai's hands were holding him in place while those hips surged up, up and deeper into him. A dizzying pressure. A sudden shift of _everything_ , and Manjoume, gasping, rolled into it as Judai leaned closer, his next words rougher, darker. “No, I just want to fuck you until you're ready to come for me,” he said, and then he took it further, guiding Manjoume's hips up and down again, his cock rigid and hard, and-

This was overwhelming, like a new kind of electricity that coiled deeper than before. Manjoume’s pride was down. He gasped while precum gathered on his swollen cock, and Judai watched everything, the grin all-knowing.

“Of course I've thought about this,” was all he said next. The pace climbed higher, Manjoume jerking down while Judai, breathing hard, gold and red, pressed up, and the contact sounded slick, a noise passing underneath his own ragged, broken gasps. “You were staring at me all through dinner. Even from the start, in that backstage area, I could see it, and you-” A hiss, and Judai trailed off, one spread hand pushing up to Manjoume's heaving chest. “You were e-even waiting for me on the bed like that.”

A change, Judai's next thrust harder, and Manjoume had given in already, absolutely. He let those shattered sounds fall from his open mouth, and he let himself sink into those thrusts, fucking himself on Judai's cock. Everything was visible. His bangs slipped back from his face, and it just _continued_ , the electricity-like feeling gathering, collecting.

“J-Judai, I-”

A vice grip, and then Judai, blinking fast, collected himself. As he leaned back his head, his throat caught the shadows, and the sheen on his skin emphasized the heavy rise and fall of his broad chest. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. Anything.”

“I-I…” Swallowing, Manjoume tried again, and he inhaled fast, shuddering at the next push. He rolled into it. “D-Don’t stop this, Judai. Just…d-don’t stop.”

Another grin, and then Judai chuckled, a sound that settled in his chest, that made the next contact more intense. Their edges fit together, Judai driving into him further. “Anything you ask for."

“T-Then…”

“Yes?”

“Faster.”

Palms tight to his skin, Judai directed him up, and every change to the angle made him grit his teeth, his hands shaking from the energy coiled within them, sporadic and bursting like storm-white across a dark sky. With a wet sound, Judai's cock slid out, completely out, and the hammer-beat of his heart grew louder, grew more insistent.

He held the gold-ringed stare, and he let Judai lead him down, onto his back.

Judai brushed a closed-mouthed kiss over his forehead, and then another whispered over his cheekbone, heavy with the words unsaid. The sound grew even louder, and, wordlessly, he parted his legs, his head turned to the side and pressing into the tangled sheets.

“Are you ready?” Judai asked, and a smile changed his voice, even though it stayed low. It suited the sudden flare of his eyes, parting the nearing dark.

“Don’t...make me repeat myself,” Manjoume ground out, and that broken sound was from him, Judai pushing in slowly, _so_ slowly until he was at the hilt and leaning over Manjoume with a visible tremor wracking down his body, making everything shift and clench. Old scars. Bare skin.

“J-Judai,” he breathed, and their eyes met. He raised his chin. “I just told you to go faster. Don't disappoint me.”

A different smile, jagged but familiar in how it turned the corners of Judai's mouth. “I don't plan on it. We're going further than this,” was all he said before pushing deeper, pushing _hard_ , and it was fast, so fucking fast. Judai was by his ear, a rasping whisper that sank and _sank_ with each thrust, incisors brushing his bared skin, and-

Judai fucked him as his fingers clawed. Judai fucked him with an unflinching stare, and the words close to his ear were like jolts of lightning, barbed and hot as they shot down.

“I’m going to make you sound like this again. I- _Ah_ , I-I'll take you even harder than this, with your hands pinned under mine and your cock red from how I've sucked it. You'd… Y-You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“T-That would…” It was too fucking good. His body ached. “T-That would shut you-” Almost. _Almost_ , and Judai's smile widened, more than just taunting. “That...would shut you up for awhile, if nothing else.”

“Oh? So _that's_ what you want,” Judai rasped, and he forced a different angle, one that had Manjoume, stunned by the sudden heat, pushing into the contact. So close.

Judai watched him.

“Show me.”

“W-What the fuck do you-?”

“Show me,” he began, his pendant dragging over Manjoume's skin in broken arcs, “what it looks like, the way you come when I'm fucking you.”

So goddamn close. Surging up from the bed, Manjoume made them kiss again, and _then_ his hips were jerking back, breaking the contact and the next deep thrust of Judai's hard cock. Cum hit his stomach and dripped over his thighs, which shook because, damn _it_ , he was lost, his eyes unseeing.

He had come with Judai inside him still, close enough that every shudder had passed down into him.

Fuck.

He groaned when, slick from the lube, clear and sticking, Judai's cock pulled out. The condom was thrown somewhere, and then the head was tight to his skin, smeared with his fresh cum. After two strokes, Judai's head had fallen to his shoulder, and then, after another, he whined, that sound splitting into a fast whisper and a heavy moan when he came. Their eyes met through the dark, and everything stayed blurred at the edges.

The silence was sudden. The air felt thin, not enough for this moment.

“Hey, I…”

“Judai?”

“I missed you.”

Judai's smile was like sunlight on a curving shoreline, and it got to him as it always did, as it always had.

Completely unfair.

“Of course you did,” Manjoume mumbled, and, leaning over him still, Judai laughed, his shoulders rolling back. “If you didn't miss my presence, then… T-Then you're not appreciating me enough in the first place.”

“Ah, I'm lucky you’re so understanding,” Judai said, and Manjoume clicked his tongue.

“At least you acknowledge that.”

And then Judai shifted his weight back, balancing on his knees, before rolling next to Manjoume, his arms thrown behind his head. A patch of scales flickered by his ribs. The thick sheen of sweat stayed on his skin.

“Hey, don't fall asleep on me,” Judai chided, and Manjoume, blinking fast, leveled a glare at him. “Otherwise I'll have to carry you to the shower, which...can be dangerous, for me. A lot of kicking. Oh, and the elbowing.”

“Are you seriously going to keep me awake until I say it?”

“Uh… This time I'm not following you, so…?”

“You really can't figure it out?”

“Ah, just _one_ hint would do it!”

“A guessing game would take too long,” Manjoume grumbled, and then, sighing as he dragged his not-sticky hand through his hair, he put the words together. Maybe he had wanted to say them after all. “Welcome back, Judai.”

That shoreline smile again, only different because of the angle, and then Judai glanced away. His dark hair had spread on the pillow.

“‘I don't deserve this.’ ‘I haven't grown enough as a person.’ 'I can't protect anyone like I am now, so I should be alone.’ Thoughts like these, they're hard to shake sometimes, and Yubel says I'm better at forgiving others than myself, but…” He paused, and Manjoume had, unthinking, clasped their hands together. Judai had let him, those calloused fingers between his own. “It’s like what you told Edo. We only move forward, even if it doesn't seem that way at first. When I focus on what happened in the past, it doesn't destroy the person I am now.”

“Judai…”

Judai squeezed his not-sticky hand, his teeth flashing. “Sorry, I like to change the subject. Keeps you in suspense, right?”

He had to laugh at that. “Such a selfless person… Remind me why I put up with this.”

“Well, I could give you one _very_ good reason, considering recent events.”

Manjoume scoffed. “Don't make me kick you out.”

“Touchy… Although, I do like that sensitive side of yours, especially when you're-”

“A-Are you _trying_ to annoy me?”

“Maybe a little,” Judai admitted, and Manjoume whacked his chest with their joined hands.

Served him right.

\---

He knew Judai was in the kitchen.

Blocks of morning light fell over the bed, segmented by the half-drawn blinds, and Manjoume had already sat up, automatically reaching for his phone while he blinked the sleep out of his eyes. From the shower last night, his hair was still damp, and he shoved it back, out of his face.

Fuck, he was smiling, and a look like that would make Judai far too smug in response. He could imagine the expression so easily.

The voices drifted into his room, as they always did -- a tangle of chirps and growls, the Ojamas shrill as they argued with each other. The next sound was a cabinet opening, and then the kettle was turned on, the mechanical whine of it distinct. Yawning, Manjoume threw back his blanket, grabbed his phone, and-

He sat back down.

He tried again. He stood up, and then he took one measured, simple step.

Unfortunately, he was going to have to _kill_ Yuki Judai. Going through Yubel might be a challenge, but he had motivation on his side, the kind that could power an entire hemisphere of the globe, topple long-reigning kingdoms, and make a permanent end to the legacy of one smug hero-duelist. 

“T-That _bastard_ … How could…?”

It was official. He had a limp.

Balled up, the nearest shirt was an over-sized Manjoume Thunder promotional exclusive, and it read 'OJAMANIAC’ under a gaudy image of Ojama Yellow's toothy smile. Horrible, but he didn't fucking care, going for a pair of boxers next. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have while naked, although he didn't _really_ want to have a conversation at all.

Throwing the door opened, he answered Judai's cheery shout of, “Hey, the eggs are almost done!” with a loud bark of, “You bastard, you don't hold back at all, do you?!”

Holding up a dish towel, his other hand on the pan’s handle, Judai stared at him for a beat and then asked, “Uh, Manjoume?”

Perched by his foot was Rescue Rabbit, the signature helmet just as shiny as ever. Next was Blade Rabbit, because idiots of a similar kind would group together, and the Ojamas were quick to, dripping snort everywhere, crawl up his shirt with their inane greetings and even _worse_ questions. Low-attack spirits were too good at asking annoying questions, and Manjoume, unblinking, slashed at the Ojamas next.

“Who invited _you_? What, isn’t being in my deck enough for you idiots?! Get out of here!”

“A-At least he’s not calling us no-effect idiots anymore,” Ojama Yellow observed before shrieking and poofing away in a cloud of confetti, the others following.

“That goes for the rest of you low-attack freeloaders too,” Manjoume stated with a withering glare, and the other beast-type monsters were the first to protest, Rescue Rabbit puffing out its cheeks.

“Woah, woah! That’s not fair!” Blade Rabbit screeched, although his long ears _did_ dip down towards the end, as if he could already see how futile the complaint was. “L-Like, uh… Y-Yubel never has to leave when we do!”

“Are you questioning my judgement?”

Judai interrupted with a slight cough. “We can catch up later, so maybe it’s best to do what he says, okay?”

“Grouchy, grumpy duelists can be so…” Like the others, Blade Rabbit shifted back into the card, and _then_ Manjoume pivoted on his heel, his glare intensifying at the sight of Judai, calm with his shirt-sleeves rolled up as he folded one omelette, slightly tilting the pan with the motion.

“So, what’s up?” Judai asked, and the urge to throttle him intensified next, no matter how hungry Manjoume was.

“You haven’t noticed?”

Blinking, Judai looked up, his hair in its usual messy state. “Uhh… I…noticed you’re a pretty good spirit exterminator. Could be a second career for you, if the Pro League doesn’t work out.”

Pointedly, Manjoume strode into the kitchen, his hands on his hips, and Judai’s only reaction was to squint and then say, “You haven’t been brainwashed again, have you? Anyways,” he added after turning back around, which only made Manjoume sputter in place, “I forgot to pick up some daikon for the side, so, yeah, it’s not going to be _perfect_ , but… Wait. Hold on.”

Slowly, Judai glanced over his shoulder, and then his expression changed, almost panicked. On cue, Yubel’s dark chuckles started to bounce around the room, and Manjoume’s patience had completely run out.

“Manjoume?”

“ _What_?”

“Here, you have a…” Patting below his right ear, Judai made a nervous laugh, and Manjoume mirrored the gesture, the realization hitting him next. “I’m, ah, not quite used to Yubel’s teeth, which means when I lose control it’s a little… I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

“For your sake, I hope you’ve completed your last will and testament,” Manjoume snapped before, almost slipping on the tile, going for the hallway mirror, and after throwing his head to the side, he scowled at the purple-red crescent on his neck, dark against his skin. Fucking fantastic.

“In my defense, I _did_ -”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, you brainless little-”

“Darling,” Yubel drawled, cutting them both off, “you’re going to burn it.”

\---

Even though Manjoume maintained his glare, he focused on clearing his side of the table, although downing the just-made tea Judai had poured for him turned out to be a challenge. The third member of their table flitted in and out of existence, and they found everything he did absolutely hilarious, hiding their amused smirk behind one pointed claw.

“Okay, but your walk looks normal to me,” Judai said for the third time, and when Manjoume bristled, he quickly continued. “R-Really, I’m not joking! But, I mean, you said it doesn’t hurt, which…is the most important thing, right?”

“Stop deflecting the blame,” Manjoume muttered, shoving his empty plate to the side and crossing his arms. “All things considered, I shouldn’t have to do that annoying press conference if you’re dead.”

Sighing, Judai shook his head. Yubel’s cackles could not be classified as ‘helpful’, and they took the brunt of Manjoume’s next glare, ineffective as it was. 

“Covering the mark should be easy enough. That’s a relief, isn’t it?”

“Oh, like I _couldn’t_ have figured that out myself. Wow, I’m so fortunate that the self-proclaimed dueling genius Yuki Judai is here,” Manjoume said, deadpan, and the cackles reached a fever pitch.

The morning light still held that yellow shade, making the table’s surface a faded grey instead of a solid black, and it was ringed on Manjoume’s side, from the careless way he would slide his morning tea or coffee to the side when he dueled Judai. The first turns were always the longest, the banter drawn out until, snapping, one of them would make a grand declaration and throw down the first card.

Judai’s grey long-sleeved shirt was frayed at the collar, and the text proudly declared him to be a member of the ‘Fossil Fighting Team’, a miniature Fossil Dragon chomping on the arm of a Fossil Warrior. It had a long and messy history, as Judai, through a series of accidental blunders and hastily made decisions, had dragged Jim into a high-stakes underground tournament and, in the process, borrowed a shirt after his own had caught on fire.

Not _all_ duelists could handle defeat gracefully.

Another rule of the world was that, if someone lent Judai a shirt, he rarely, if ever, remembered to give it back.

Judai had told him the story under a canopy of stars, sitting cross-legged on the roof of this very building, and Manjoume -- considering the moon-shaped marks in red on Judai’s knuckles, constant shapes that seemed like they would never heal over -- finally sighed and shook his head. Arguing further would be pointless.

“Oh?” Judai perked up, and he shone with a winning smile. “The storm clouds have cleared above the one and only indomitable Manjoume Thunder, although…that term doesn’t apply to me, does it?”

Snorting, Manjoume had a quick retort. “You should count yourself lucky that I indulge that side of you, Judai. Otherwise you really would suffer, wouldn’t you?”

“Maybe…”

From there, the morning was easy, like sliding into the grooves of an established routine, and he won their first duel with Ojama King, Judai prodding at his line of trap cards with a slight frown. “So many, and none of them were right for that move,” he lamented before adding a tally to Manjoume’s list, which, mark by mark, was closing in on Judai’s lead.

Penciled-in drawings of Neos and the Ojamas encircled their results, the Ojama Yellow that Judai had sketched last month terrifyingly accurate. When he concentrated -- the pencil scratching against the reused paper, an advertisement for a new restaurant -- two lines would appear between his eyebrows.

Swarming the field, Judai took the second duel, and -- if they had nothing else to do, if they could really stay here for the entire day -- the duels could continue like that until it was dark outside, the wins traded like tokens, like comebacks in some meandering discussion that had lost its subject and neither one of them cared enough to try and remember such a useless, needless thing.

The pieces had all been collected, and Manjoume then cleared Judai’s field with the flick of one hand, the other dropping the last card he had held. A total victory. His opponent laughed.

“My luck’s letting me down this morning. Don’t get _too_ confident, okay?”

“Too late,” Manjoume drawled, and then he shuffled his cards. He let them pass through his fingers as he continued. “For my next competitive deck, I was considering a Dark Scorpions build, since they've done nothing to earn their keep, despite the fact that I've been carrying them around for years.” He grimaced, like a reflex. “But that might not be worth the downside, which would be having to listen to those drunkards go on and _on_ all day.”

His chin in one hand, Judai had already shuffled, his deck the same as it was before -- unaltered. “If you want some interesting conversations, then you can borrow my Yubel cards. Just don't lose them, okay?”

“What the…?” Unthinking, he had glanced at the apparition, the shadows over Yubel parting. Judai wouldn’t have said that without their permission, not even as a joke. “What, is the freeloader feeling left out? How sad.”

Without a third chair at the table, the tangible Yubel settled for sitting on the edge of it, their legs neatly crossed at the ankles.

“Not at all,” they drawled, and Manjoume stiffened at the pressure of their gaze, the lights within it whirling. “My darling Judai and I are joined at the core, and I experience everything he does when our bodies are even partially fused together. Must I explain further?”

“T-That's why you're a freeloader,” Manjoume said, and Yubel just chuckled, sharing a quick look with Judai over one pointed wing. His tea cup was in danger of being knocked off the table.

“Well then, despite your barbed exterior, you're actually calmer than you were when we met last night,” Yubel stated. Their smirk curled. “But, of course, I take it that the prospect of making a mistake in front of millions of avid Duel Monsters fans still bothers you, doesn't it?”

“Yubel.” At the sound of Judai, they craned their neck back, and he continued in the same level voice. “You said you were going to play nice.”

“Hmm? Do I really need to add more sugar to mask the sour truth?” they asked, and then there was another chuckle, followed by a series of movements that left Yubel draped over Judai's chair, their arms coiled around his neck and chest. “Ah, sorry, sorry. I'm too forward with dear Jun-chan.”

“I'm not so weak that I need to be misled by the likes of you,” Manjoume said. He put his cards down. “It's necessary. I've discussed every detail of it a thousand times, which is why backing down now would be wasteful, not just for myself.”

Somehow, Misako had endured his need for constant updates, every revision of that script met with his criticisms, which had always come so easily. She deserved a vacation longer than any he could take, long enough for her to forget some of the details that were always on perfect recall, but she would always ignore him when he brought up that subject directly, her expression enigmatic, almost proud.

“Although, waiting around all day doesn't seem fun at all,” Judai said, making Manjoume blink out of his daze. “Your schedule is clear until...four, I think. That's a change from how things usually are.”

“Obviously, but it's not a problem.”

Elbows on the table, Judai leaned forward, Yubel following the motion with that pleased expression, their eyes narrowing even more than Judai's own as he said, “Well, I promise to entertain you. Do you agree with that arrangement?”

“Y-You…” Sighing, Manjoume looked away, as if the kettle was extremely interesting. “Look, I'm not sitting around by choice. It's a calculated decision from my agency, since-”

“Wait, I got this. After the press conference, there's a chance that the media would over-analyze any public appearances you'd made earlier that day. Plus, if the conference itself is towards the end of the news cycle, then the speculation about it won't last the whole day. Well, at least for this time zone.”

Manjoume scoffed. “It's cheating to use Yubel's mind for a situation like this.”

Grinning, Judai had a quick answer. “No, this is all me. Right, Yubel?”

“Of course, darling,” they rasped, nudging the back of his head with their cheek.

“As if you can be objective about _anything_ involving Judai,” was what Manjoume muttered, and then he took a long drink of his tea.

“Oh, I could say the same for you,” they stated, one nail tracing the edge of Judai's collar and grazing his skin. The chain around his neck clicked. “After all, that's the main source of your trepidation. It's not what such an announcement would do to _you_ , but what it could mean for him.” When Manjoume lowered his cup, a snarl on his face, Yubel's grin only widened. “Ah, my dear, you're overreacting, of course, but the concern is very sweet.”

“You shouldn't tease him so much,” Judai said, a cup held loose in his right hand, and the draconic Yubel purred when he dropped it to push their choppy hair back.

Eventually they, bored and yawning into one hand, folded themselves into a corner of the living room with a paperback novel, its spine broken, and Yubel piled the read pages to their right, their humming a constant in the background. The latest addition to the score sheet from Judai was a short Grand Mole, posing with a victory sign, and when Manjoume hastily added a frowning Ojama, Judai burst out laughing.

\---

“You should wear this instead.”

Because those words had come from a grinning Judai, holding out a t-shirt with a 'Manjoume Thunder Exclusive’ tag dangling from the collar, the advice was guaranteed to be horrible, and Judai was unable to stop his grin from turning ridiculous when Manjoume, scowling, took it and flipped it over.

The front read 'I'm Ojama-Amazing!!” over a posing Ojama Red and Ojama Blue.

“You don't even have a clothing line,” Manjoume said, balling it up and then hurling it back at Judai. “Therefore, you have no right to criticize me.”

“I’m not!”

Ignoring that, Manjoume returned to adjusting his cuff links, and he stood in front of the bedroom mirror, the suit a light grey. The button-down shirt was white, formal to match the occasion.

The hour was drawing closer, and it would be irresponsible to cause any delays. In total, Judai still had the lead on the scoring sheet, four marks ahead. It had been seven that morning.

When Judai returned, Manjoume had started on his tie, and he saw that Judai had thrown his grey bomber jacket on, the shirt underneath it the same. A red phone case stuck out of his front pocket.

Right. _That_ had been another thing to do -- get Judai a new phone, the one he used old enough to be a relic of the modern era. Not the mention how ridiculously cheap the model was. 

A clip-on duel holster hung off a length of Judai's belt, and his keys was shoved into the extra deck pocket.

“Where are you going?”

A slight pause, Judai staring at the opposite wall. His thumbs were hooked in his belt loops. The scarf knotted around his neck was Manjoume's.

The clouds hadn’t cleared, but there was no rain that day.

“Out,” he said. “The duel market opens early.” Before Manjoume could interrupt, he added, “While I _could_ overtake your popularity with my dashing good looks and exceptional comebacks, I also don’t feel like running into any reporters tonight. I should be back before your broadcast.”

Even though the fit of the suit was impeccable, it hung off him like the costume of an impostor, uncomfortable and persistently strange. Smoothing down his hair, Manjoume practiced a scowl. Close enough.

“What Yubel said earlier, about who you're actually nervous for, that's the truth, isn't it?”

Glancing over his shoulder, Manjoume let their eyes meet, a tension flickering. He dropped his hands to his sides.

“Do I really need to answer that?” he asked, and Judai smiled a little.

“I guess not, Manjoume.”

“You can call me ‘Jun,’ minus that ridiculous honorific.”

“It’s tough breaking a habit like that,” Judai admitted, and then he took a step forward.

But Manjoume completed the kiss, his wrists crossing as he pulled Judai close, and he breathed in the scent of someone else, their noses sliding together when the contact deepened, his own lips parting.

After, he stayed where he was, his head bowed against Judai's chest, and he felt every breath, his fingers on the edges of the parallel tears, twisting the rough fabric.

When Judai changed the subject, Manjoume smiled, unseen at this angle.

“While the Dark Scorpion cards are versatile, they will need a lot of support to stay on the field.” A shrug, and then Judai added, “If you're going to keep the Ojamas, Ojama Delta Hurricane could help you inflict battle damage against an opponent with a power deck, but, still, it's a difficult balance to find. Sounds like a lot of work, honestly.”

“So, you're saying I need support cards?”

“That's my premium advice as your exclusive coach,” Judai said, and Manjoume snorted.

“You're the one going to a card market. If that's really the case, then buy me those missing cards, dumbass.”

“Ah, you're too tense…”

“Oh, and _who_ made me that way?!”

“Well, I-”

\---

The dueling district of Fortunis clustered around Roulette Stadium, its most famous arena, the place of so many rapid falls and sudden accessions. Event halls forked away from the massive structure, their layouts mirrored and modern, sparse in the way that suited rich investors and internationally renowned designers' claims to prestige.

While the streets were lined with pedestrians -- most walking towards the stadium where, later, a high-profile Pro League match would be filmed live -- the crowd had a different energy than that of the duel market. The sagging tents and cluttered tables showed through the gaps between sleek, stiff towers as the car continued on, Misako’s bag on the middle seat and the clicking of her silver rings a constant staccato, and his eyes caught the flickers of duel spirits. He knew that behind them, with the gaze of someone else, there were more, their vivid colours melding together.

Judai had joked with him about the Dark Scorpion cards in the elevator before, with a winning smirk, diving down for a kiss and then running out the opening doors. He had thrown a wave behind him while Manjoume had sputtered and tried to stop a blush from spreading on his face.

“Hmmm… That expression means you're thinking about him. Or,” Yubel, who was now floating in the backseat, transparent but with a leer that made him flinch hard, bracing himself against the window, “maybe you're just thinking about last night.”

“Y-You overgrown…”

And, for reasons that became extremely obvious, Misako had stopped typing and was squinting at him instead, her thin eyebrows crooked. “...Thunder?”

“J-Just give me a second,” he sputtered, reaching for his deck holster, and Yubel cackled in delight, floating above the middle seat with their legs stretched through the partition.

“Oh, you do think fast. Tactically speaking, a kiss can be an excellent distraction.”

Manjoume sneered at the card that had been placed in his extra deck, the illustrated Yubel's smirk mirrored by that of the actual spirit, lounging with their head craned back.

“Now, before you launch into some ill-advised rant,” Yubel drawled, and Misako's look had become distinctly concerned, her phone on her lap, “please note that this was _my_ idea. After all, advice from a trusted source can ease a difficult situation, although it shouldn't be nearly as difficult as you're imagining it to be.”

“Does it _look_ like I need your advice?” Manjoume snapped, and then Misako's look sunk all the way to ‘annoyed’.

“Excuse me?”

His frustration only made Yubel cackle again, and Manjoume quickly added, “My apologies. I, uh, can see someone I didn't expect, and they're very...talkative.”

“Like the Ojama cards?”

“Ah, that's a demeaning comparison,” Yubel drawled. Manjoume ignored the comment.

“It's...the same principle.” Sighing, he leaned back against his seat, Yubel's card between two fingers, and he considered the portrait. “Look, it's not a big deal, so I'll just ignore it. Of course, this winged vermin never has anything _useful_ to say anyways.”

More laughing. Great.

“I trust this won't affect your performance tonight?” Misako asked.

“Obviously not.”

“Alright,” she said, and then she turned back to her phone, her expression unmoving like when, rambling more than necessary, he had first told her about the travel monitor and the signals it put out. She had agreed to keep an eye on them before he finished a condensed explanation or, now that he thought about it again, before he had _really_ started any explanation at all. He talked to 'himself’ more than he wanted to admit, the Ojamas always eager to shove their stubby fingers out of car windows, making various loud exclamations about the ever-changing scenery that he, more often than not, answered without thinking. At fan meetings, they were the ongoing babble in his ear, and they were the cause of his many whispered comments as he followed Misako down some studio hallway or through some tight-knit crowd.

Had he really been fair to her? The question turned inside his head. He moved Yubel's card back into his holster.

Perhaps it was unprovoked. Perhaps it had been accidental, but he had _still_ been a jerk, someone unworthy of having their name carved into the annals of history. She had guided the chisel.

“Hey.”

One ring on her left hand was a silver whorl, another on her right hand mirroring the design. “Do you need something?”

Their destination, an event hall that bordered the far side of Roulette Stadium, was at least ten blocks away, the dense traffic slowing their car to a crawl. The partition was up.

“Yubel, the spirit of this card, is here, and I can prove it,” he said, but she showed no immediate reaction. Her persona was too complete, that of the steadfast manager who controlled the game board, himself the piece she guided and corrected. Still, when Shibata had called about her promotion, that same persona had dropped its polished exterior. His smile had been just as ridiculous as her own.

“Thunder, that's…” She paused, her phone down again. The street outside was lined with promotional signs -- discounts on food, new opening hours for duel lessons. “Every professional duelist has an eccentric side. You don't need to justify yours to me or to anyone else at our agency. If it was a problem, I would have already severed ties with you, as would have our president and his advisers.”

Yubel's whisper was in his ear, and tufts of shocking white hair had drifted into his vision. “Ah, your manager likes you far, _far_ more than she lets on, as if you're the bratty younger brother and she's the cold older sister. Although, the age difference goes the other way, if I remember correctly…”

Ignoring that, Manjoume continued.

“I don’t ‘need’ to do anything. I want to, so the question becomes whether you want confirmation that I’m not delusional or, as you put it, ‘eccentric’.”

Yubel’s wings were a jagged transparency over the interior of the car and the city passing around it, and Misako’s response was given with the same fixed expression. “You’re not delusional,” she said, almost chiding. “Try to see this from my position. I don’t want to pressure you into revealing anything that would cross your own boundaries. Plus, as I’m sure you’re already aware of, my obligations to the agency can complicate things. Namely, the agency’s own interests can supersede my own.”

“Tell me, does it seem like I’m hesitating?”

A beat, and then she laughed, a hand curling by her face. Yubel was right -- she was younger than him, like Edo. They shared the same problem of not acting that way, and Manjoume smirked, aware that Yubel’s claws had moved down the front of his jacket, unfelt but still there. Yubel and the Ojamas had another thing in common -- they were all very,  _very_ hands-on. Personal space was an alien concept, evidently. 

“Ah, that’s too arrogant. Please save that line for your fans instead,” Misako said, laughing a little more. Idly, she spun one ring, a small emerald stone rotating with the motion, and then smoothed down her skirt. “Well, since the offer is on the table, I’d be more than happy to make the acquaintance of this ‘Yubel’ card.”

“Yubel,” Manjoume said, and they perked up, their grin expectant. “It’s time for a freeloader like you to earn your keep. Remember that _my_ image is at stake. Honestly, you’re being insufferably rude.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” they drawled, but, languid, they rolled off of his shoulders, and their wings folded in until the tips crossed. “However, my card is with you tonight. Therefore, I’m all yours to play with.”

“Or to throw out the window,” he countered, and then he cleared his throat. “Just hurry up.”

When Yubel answered, a single armored wrist flickered, the muscles of it in stark lines, and Misako’s guard dropped, her phone clattering to the floor of the car. “That insolent attitude, why must I find it so charming?” The rest of Yubel stayed in shadow, faint and blurred, except for the serrated fangs, and their words were given lightly, Misako’s wide eyes moving between the clawed hand and the gathered dark. “My apologies for the delay. I trust that you’re doing well, dear manager.”

“Yubel, I take it,” she said, stiff and formal. She reached one hand out. “It’s a pleasure. I am Misako Ka-”

“Oh, we’re already acquainted,” Yubel stated, and Misako’s eyebrows shot up. A razor-sharp smirk turned their lips. “I must take this opportunity to thank you for looking after Jun-chan. He can be so difficult, can’t he?”

Before Manjoume could make a _correction_ , his manager intervened. “Please do not discredit the work Thunder does for the benefit of our agency and the game of Duel Monsters. His fans are a testament to the integrity of his persona and the efforts he’s given in the past.”

“All that over-practiced speech does is confirm what I just said,” Yubel drawled before taking the offered hand, and the contact jolted Misako out of her retort. The ever-present silver rings passed under Yubel’s scales, the longest edges of their claws carefully angled away. “But, ah, I’m overstepping my boundaries here. I’ll return to the background for now.”

“R-Right. I’m…glad we could meet…in person,” Misako stuttered, and she blinked quickly when Yubel snapped back to their spirit form. “That…was…”

He waited, and the car took a corner, a neon sign passing outside. Groups of people. Clusters of fans in high-contrast shirts and waving signs.

“So, I take it you’re impressed with my ‘eccentric side’?”

Another laugh, her lacquered nails curling by her chin. “You’re not going to forget that phrase, are you?”

“You already know the answer.”

\---

“Although…”

He glanced back because Misako had stopped, her eyebrows furrowed. The hallway was nondescript and empty, and the fall of her heels had been the loudest sound.

“What is it?”

“About...” After a furtive look down the hallway, she leaned closer, her blue-black ponytail dipping over her shoulder. “About Yubel, I must admit that one thing surprised me.”

“Aside from their horrible attitude?”

“Oh, I’m so _hurt_ ,” Yubel whined, and their long wrists had stayed draped around his neck ever since they had left the car, purple-white hair falling _everywhere_ and shoving at it, predictably, did nothing. Misako straightened, and what she said next had Yubel’s cackles bouncing around the inside of his skull and Manjoume, desperately, cursing the existence of one Yuki Judai.

“You actually let them call you ‘Jun-chan’?”

“’Let’ is a generous word for it,” he grumbled, and Yubel, in hysterics, had fallen further over his shoulders. Never again would he find them intimidating. Never. Again.

“‘Jun-chan’, ‘Jun-chan’…”

“S-Stop repeating that!” he exclaimed, and Misako had the decency to look guilty. Slightly.

“I apologize. I…didn’t realize you were so close with them.” She continued after a short gesture, a smile vivid on her face. “Although, that’s a mistake on my part. You’ve been able to see Duel Spirits for so long, longer than your project with Industrial Illusions, and...those bonds are real, aren’t they?”

“Just wait until you meet the Ojamas,” he said, and her ponytail _actually_ smacked him when she startled and whipped around, which was _officially_ a new experience in their partnership. “Don’t ask me how it works, but 'my coach' can do something to make them visible, which, by the way, is a horrifying experience. You’ll regret looking so excited about it.”

“Impossible. I want to judge them for myself.” Another hand gesture, this one verging on violent. “They’re your iconic monsters, and _they_ might hold the key to a new change to your image, some new _angle_ that we can capture the public’s imagination with.”

He scoffed, and they continued down the hallway like that, Misako matching his strides with the brisk clicks of her studded heels. “Prepare to be disappointed, very disappointed.”

“Impossible. Absolutely impossible.”

As they passed by a group of sound technicians, black wires looping in plastic containers, he added, “So, I take it that you’ve seen the error of your ways, Misako.”

“Excuse me?”

“A career with me is better than any with Edo Phoenix.”

A girlish laugh, and she ducked her head, which felt like a win mark on his side of the tally. “Ah, I wouldn’t go _that_ far…”

Next were the typical greetings, and then, with his manager at his side, he was striding out onto a narrow stage, empty except for the podium at its midpoint. A single black microphone. A printed version of his speech centimeters below it, not that he needed the reminder.

The red lights of many cameras tracked it when he crossed the stage, and, with a quick look, Misako took her place by the back wall, ready to intercept if any of the questions were too pointed, too direct. Yubel was like a second guard, and their claws crossed his collarbone, the hold the same one they would give to Judai, the sudden proximity of it like that of a heavy coat, like that of his signature coat which, ragged and torn, was in his apartment now, probably hanging off a chair or on the floor in a pile.

Everything here was perfectly ordered, down to the rows of chairs. The capacity was less than one-hundred, all attendees reporters or similar media personnel. He recognized most of the faces, their names next in his memory.

Of course Yubel had been correct -- everything was different when Judai was involved.

He breathed in.

\---

Being responsible, as it turned out, was a major pain.

When the questions started, Yubel’s whispers broke through the hurried shouts and camera-clicks, star-burst flashes going off in unison. After one reporter made the unnecessary, _provoking_ assertation that “some of your loyal fans might feel betrayed by this announcement,” Yubel’s hold changed, their knuckles brushing a tangible path down his spine, and their next murmur sounded as a warning. “Your composure will be admired here. Don’t lose it so easily, my dear.”

He had ground his back teeth until it felt like they would burst open, the twisted shards shooting out like shrapnel.

And even the light-hearted, _easy_ questions were an annoyance, his responses clipped, some short enough that Yubel, surging forward, chided him in their smooth drawl. The camera-flashes flared in scattered bursts at any new information, and his hold on his expression was tight, strained enough that it had started to tear apart. _“Try me,”_ he wanted to snap, just to see if anyone would be so foolish as to test him further than this.

One reporter was, his question on how “the heads of the prestigious Manjoume family might react to its youngest brother involving himself with-”

 _That_ time Manjoume had imagined the podium cracking under his clenched fists, and Misako, taking the advantage, had shoved the microphone away, her own voice even and composed as she asked for one last question. The flashes continued.

What a fucking pain.

“Oh? You’re not storming off? How unexpected…” Yubel mused, and he knew _exactly_ what they were doing, the tactic one of Judai’s favourites. It was a specific kind of taunt, and he almost snorted at how predictable it was.

“Yes, from LDK News?”

At Misako’s call, a short reporter in an over-sized suit stood up, smoothing down the bumps in his jacket while he bobbed the microphone with the other. “Y-Yes! Kurita for LDK News. T-Thunder, I was wondering if you had any f-final statement you’d like to give your fans and supporters.”

Wordlessly, Misako moved back, and he inclined his head slightly before retaking his spot at the podium. One last question, that was all.

“My fans should prepare themselves for my next showing as a duelist, as Manjoume Thunder never duels with anything less than the power of a champion,” he stated, the words coming to him in clusters. His obligations had twisted together, had tangled in some complex way. “I thank my fans for their continuing support and for that of my agency. I will not disappoint during my next duel, and that’s…” He clicked his tongue, irritated. “That’s all I have to say at this time.”

When he turned away, it was with a storm of lights, and the order of the room was now gone, microphones shoved onto the stage as questions were thrown carelessly, too many for him to divide the words -- provided that he could even _care_ at this point. Misako’s heels clacked against the tile of the hallway as she matched his steps.

“You forgot to thank the members of the press for their time and consideration.”

He laughed, a harsh sound like the grind of a metal saw against dense rock. “As if half of those people deserve it when-”

“Thunder.”

Fuck. “Just… Whatever. It’s done.”

“Aside from that, you did well, considering the circumstances,” she said, which made him laugh again, his hands deep in his pockets.

“That one reporter thought it would be hilarious to bring up whether or not my brothers ‘approve’ of me dating someone from a different tax bracket. Oh, wait. No, it was _worse than_ that,” he added while Yubel ran circles over his back, the pressure like that from a thumb. “The follow-up question would’ve been _something_ about how I’m a total disgrace for ‘not producing a male heir’ to ‘uphold the stability of the Manjoume Group’ for when my father’s line finally… Urgh. Forget it.”

He had recognized that reporter, a lap dog of Chosaku’s, too late. The recognition would have been instantaneous at a different location, like a family gathering full of old money and draped with a stifling formality, heavy expectations thrown on him without a second look. The past could not be buried. It moved forward alongside him, some parts of it dragged like the links of a weathered chain.

When the realization had hit, the real subject that reporter wanted to discuss suddenly clear and stark in its ugliness, his insides had turned to ice.

“-and the directors approved the final stage last week. Since the start of the new season, we’ve also seen the expected growth in…” A familiar click of two rings, and then Misako changed the subject, her bag high on her shoulder. A stack of registration forms made it impossible to close, the zipper only pulled halfway. “My apologies. Your schedule finished two minutes ago.”

“You shouldn’t apologize for being efficient.”

“No, but the better response would be to wish you a good weekend,” she replied, that chiding tone stronger than before, and the hallway was nearing its end, the car waiting outside. Punctual, as always. “Someone should be over with your new phone tomorrow. Just use Judai’s in the meantime if you need anything from the agency.”

He nodded, and the path to the car had been cleared already, it lined with more flashing cameras, some autograph requests shouted loud, but he kept walking with his head high, his gaze unflinching. Nothing was wrong. He reminded himself of that, even though a shard of that ice-cold feeling remained, and it was something painful that he had forgotten, like a piece of broken glass in the pitch-black dark that cut into him now.

When Manjoume threw the door open, the apartment was in the dark.

“Before you threaten my darling with some creative act of violence,” Yubel said as their wings unfurled, their body sliding over his, and he jumped from the tangible press of their palms against his jacket, “you might want to look a little closer. For the sake of your pride, I would _hate_ to call a professional duelist unobservant.”

“I’m not…” With a heavy sigh, he stepped further into the apartment, the light falling into it from the city still lit outside, in shades of steel grey and soft white. The traffic moved in red-orange blurs, and the silence inside here was striking, the contrast severe with the conference at its end, the noise exploding outwards. Judai’s sketchbook had been left out, but nothing was on the open pages, and-

Oh.

“What are _you_ doing here?” he mumbled at Rescue Rabbit, its haunches on the floor with its two front paws perfectly lined up. Something was judgemental about its puffy-faced frown, if _that_ could even be called a frown, and-

Maybe he had finally lost it, since he was standing in his kitchen at some ungodly hour of the night, the preparations for the conference hitting every possible delay, and trying to interpret what _that_ twinge of some low-attack rabbit spirit’s _whiskers_ meant. Yubel, who was exceedingly helpful as always, just giggled at him.

“I should have exactly one roommate. The rest of you are inconveniences, and…you’re so lucky I put up with any of this.”

While Rescue Rabbit could _actually_ talk, the words given as squeaks, the eccentric spirit, once again, decided to play a game of charades.

It tilted its wide head back and wiggled its ears.

“Let’s see if you can rescue yourself from my garbage can next,” Manjoume muttered, and the rabbit immediately stamped one foot. Manjoume escalating to shouting. “Who gave _you_ the right to boss _me_ around?! How about a trip off the balcony next?! I would even… Wait.”

Up.

It meant ‘go up’.

Immediately, he pivoted on his heel and made for the door, swearing under his breath because, of course, Judai couldn’t make things nice and simple for once, although the roof was a relatively convenient hiding place.

Still, he wasn’t feeling kind, not at _all_.

Judai was cross-legged on the bare, cracked floor of the roof, the thin fence in front of him and the black void of the ocean beyond that, and Manjoume greeted him with a foot pressed to his back.

Judai, humming a little, waved a set of cards.

“A ‘Deck Out’ strategy is one option, considering what monster cards you’ll have to work with,” Judai said as, scowling at nothing, Manjoume sat down on the cold roof and then swiped at the cards that were held out. Their conditions varied, some creased and scratched. He ran his thumb over a worn spell card, testing the texture of it. “Robbin’ Goblin and Gravekeeper’s Servant can help out with that, and, to add in some damage, cards like Coffin Seller and Dark Room of Nightmare are two options.”

Although a slight breeze pulled at the cards he held, it was too weak to take them. The grey-blue light, cast from the adjacent building, changed the portraits he stared at, pooling new shades over their familiar shapes and lines. “Burning my opponents down… Does a style like that really suit Manjoume Thunder?”

“You’re the only one who can answer _that_ question,” Judai replied, smiling. “I’m just giving you some options. Although, well, helping your opponent fill their graveyard could backfire completely. Oh, and while dark-warrior monsters have lots of support options, they…don’t really match up with your Ojamas. I mean, cards like DNA Surgery or DNA Transplant can help, but…” A shrug, and then Yubel joined in, their own laughter a faint rumble. The shoreline ahead of them was in vivid orange, lights from restaurants and boardwalk shops spilling over, and the card that Manjoume held was smoothed out with age, worn down to the point that it had become interesting, unique in some new, accidental way. “Are you sure you want to try a deck like this?”

“Yes. I want those loud-mouthed idiots to suffer.”

Another laugh.

Everything was different with Judai. Everything was starker, new colours driven into the world.

“Yeah, but you might be the one who suffers instead.”

“Please, a challenge like this is nothing to me,” Manjoume asserted, and he folded the cards together before placing them in his holster. He held a card out in return, smirking as he said, “Although, I should know better than to take _any_ advice from a trickster like you.”

Judai took it with the same smile. “Ah, so you admit that I tricked you… Guess my charms were too much to handle.”

“You tried to shove your tongue down my throat.”

“So? You liked it.”

“T-That’s not the point!”

A subtle scatter of green-orange pushed through Judai’s eyes, and something in the air shifted, like the pressure was dropping fast. The other Yubel cards were adjusted -- glittering, draconic images that disappeared into Judai’s holster, next to the keychain of the winking Kuriboh. Shreds of hyper-bright green stayed near his pupils.

“I couldn’t have done it.”

At first, he didn’t understand -- Judai's cryptic side showing itself for the thousandth time, making Manjoume the one who had to wait and stare at Judai’s profile, jagged strands of hair passing over his forehead, trailing curving shadows.

“…Judai?”

“Stand there and listen to those reporters,” he said, and then he shook his head. “Sending Yubel instead was the better choice.”

“Your ‘better half’,” Manjoume added, but it had no bite to it.

“It really was hard for you, wasn’t it?”

“Don’t make me feel even more pathetic.”

Even with the city lights pulsing against the dark sky, the stars were still out, threaded by the shifting red-whites of overheard planes, and he watched Judai put his weight on his palms and tilt his head back. The waves pulsed, taking in more of the shoreline.

“Shame your phone is still broken.”

“Why?”

“Someone might call to congratulate you on dating such an irresistibly handsome and talented duelist.”

“Yeah, _right_.”

“See, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were relieved that it doesn’t work.”

Lying took effort. Judai’s eyes were locked on the sky.

“There’s…a chance one of the Manjoume Group’s lackeys would call me directly.”

“Like, one of your brothers?”

“As if they could be bothered with…” No. Stop. Like a reset button, he pressed one thumb against the palm of his hand, and in seconds the cards were back. He shuffled them absently, spells falling over traps. “A ‘disgrace’ like myself has fallen too low in the past. Acknowledging me directly would ‘spoil their image’ or ‘besmirch the Manjoume Group’s name’.”

“Those words aren’t your own.”

“Please, Judai. Don’t insult my recall,” he said, and one card slipped loose. He corrected it. “Although, even _you_ might remember those phrases if our positions were switched. Family gatherings, nightly meetings, video calls… They’re like catchphrases with no style at all.”

He would have continued, even if the words hurt, but Judai had grabbed his right hand, stilling the motion of the cards. The grip had a pressure to it.

“Jun,” was how it started, and Manjoume’s eyes flew open, “you shouldn’t talk like someone else, especially if this person was cruel to you. That habit doesn’t suit you at all.”

“I…don’t need _you_ to tell _me_ that,” he stuttered back, but Judai only continued from there, calloused fingers between his own. The distance between them felt thin and charged, charged with a flickering electricity that drove his heartbeat faster. Judai had to feel the reaction.

He had to know already.

“Since we’ve been on the roof, I’ve missed something like three calls,” Judai stated, careless. “I mean, my popularity is no joke, so you’ve probably broken a few hearts tonight.”

“Anyone moronic enough to like you deserves it.”

“Hey, hey, don’t you-?”

“ _With_ one notable exception,” Manjoume added, and Judai laughed at the bad joke. Of course he did. “Also, I would bet my entire deck that those calls are from Sho and Fubuki-san, two from Sho because he always takes a ‘Missed Call’ as a challenge.”

“You’re going to wake up the Ojamas if you talk like that,” Judai said, which was, unfortunately, true.

But the stars were out, and Manjoume didn’t protest at all when Judai, dipping his head down, passed a kiss over his mouth.

“What, no Yubel card this time?”

“Ah, you’re expecting that move from me again… I’ll have to be more creative in the future.”

“The pressure’s on.”

“Hmm. I can be very good under pressure.”

“D-Don’t say it like _that_.”

“Like what? Jun-chan, are you-?”

“Just ‘Jun’!”

“Well, if Yubel gets to, I should-”

\---


	26. The Warrior Returning Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …Next is the /actual/ epilogue, I swear. It needs another 2k words or so, but I should have it up relatively soon. Wait for me, haha! 
> 
> This chapter is some more domestic fun before we hit the stage again. Dragons, heroes... Oh my, oh my.
> 
> The Dark Scorpion Band: Just as a refresher, these guys show up in episode 39, also known as the ‘Great Detective Manjoume Thunder’ episode. I figured that if Manjoume’s still carrying around the Reject Well cards, then it’d make sense for him to still have the Dark Scorpions as well. Since he never uses them in a canon card game, I also figured that it’d be, errr, fun, at least, to shove them into this.

\---

The next morning started with Judai spilling black coffee on an Ojama Yellow card, which meant that it was one of the loudest mornings on record.

The loudness of a duel spirit was not proportional to its size, as Manjoume knew very _, very_ well by now.

Considering that the card still had smudge marks from the last time Manjoume had scrawled glasses and a beard on it -- the natural end to a series of threats that the Ojamas had refused to take seriously -- the blob of brown-red on the top corner was no great loss.

Evidently, Ojama Yellow disagreed. The noise was not conductive to the simple, repetitive task of sorting cards, but it stopped when an irritated Yubel intervened, their face clenched into an ominous glare that had the Ojamas popping out of existence.

Yubel could be useful, even if he loathed to admit it.

As a starry-eyed kid, the task of going through his card collection had been an opportunity to brag and pelt the neighbours’ kids with low-rarity monster cards, usually revenge for a lost duel or rude comment. As a teenager, his rarest cards had been kept behind layers of plastic and glass, rarely touched by his own hands, and a room had been added to the family mansion's left wing to display them like rare paintings, like objects that were expected to only appreciate in value.

Some did. Others did not, and because his fingers would mark the glass, he had always entered that room with clenched fists.

As a teenager, his dream of becoming a champion had been contorted into a command, and, unthinking, he had followed it.

What a fucking joke.

As an early contender in the Pro League, he had held onto every card like a lifeline, dragging the squabbling spirits with him from duel to duel in suitcases and adding more to their mix, every one of those encounters an accident. His cards were a pack of mangy mutts that no one else would take in. They were his strays.

His alone.

As a roommate of the New Kaiser, he had shoved the monster cards that pissed him off under their lop-sided dining table, propping up the short leg. At the slightest provocation, Sho would retell the story of coming back to the apartment and finding the Ojama brothers’ cards in the fridge, an incident that, because it had _probably_ been beyond stupid, Manjoume had no explanation for and very little memory of. Late into the night, they would scatter their decks over that dented, chipped table and stare at the gathered cards, the tv running in the background and the kettle rattling to life, their instant meals stacked on the narrow counter.

Sho still sorted his cards the same way -- the piles based on type and segmented by bits of coloured paper with labels in neat pen. Unseen, the Vehicroids would rumble low enough to be mistaken for purring cats, and they would babble and click when Sho concentrated, the resemblance to Ryo suddenly visible. But it was only that -- a passing resemblance. Sho was his own person: childish and strange but also honest and unyielding when he needed to be.

Now, as a duelist of the highest caliber, capable of taking on any challenger, Manjoume had an expansive collection that spilled out of the safe, littered the highest shelves of his office, and spread through the living room, cards in the cracks of the couch and, randomly, drifting under the tv stand. All of it was a major pain, even if the task of sorting them _was_ useful for testing his memory.

In its current state, the hybrid Dark Scorpion deck was a messy, shambling, chimeric thing that lacked any consistency, and shoving more support spells in _could_ give it structure. Theoretically.

Maybe.

It was Saturday, a day he had taken off, and Judai, in a rolled-up t-shirt and yawning into one hand, was _supposed_ to be helping. Thus far, Judai had done an excellent job of picking up random cards, frowning at them, and then putting them back down again, which was so extraordinarily helpful that Manjoume, almost crushing a copy of Command Knight, couldn’t decide on the best insult for the situation.

Although, he did throw Command Knight on top of the deck, covering the Marauding Captain underneath it.

Scratching his head, Judai crossed the room and picked up Command Knight. “You’re not adding Ojamas to this, are you?”

Probably not. But, just to be difficult, he shrugged and said, “There are more subtle methods if your goal is to extract information from me. Scared that you’ll lose our next duel?”

“Not… _exactly_ ,” Juda admitted, and before Manjoume could hurl a trap card at him, he stepped back and took in the room, letting out a low whistle. “See, I thought I knew what I was getting into, moving in with you, but-”

“Judai…”

“-you still find new ways to impress me,” Judai finished, and then Mirror Force bounced off his head. It landed on another stack of cards, this one bordered by another on the coffee table and three on the rug. Manjoume’s next attempt at grappling Judai ended with a tower of spell cards falling over and himself lying on the floor, contemplating the bare ceiling and the simple fact that his new phone would arrive soon. That would eliminate the obvious excuses for ignoring the outcome of the press conf-

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Judai holding his own phone and tapping at its screen.

When it rang, Manjoume bolted up.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“You’re always telling me to be more responsible, which means dealing with all of these missed calls. I’m just following orders,” Judai teased, and then it went through. “Ah, Fubuki!”

From the low angle, Manjoume saw his long-time mentor -- maintaining that short beard and now sporting a khaki shirt -- give Judai a cheery wave. “Well, well, if the goddess of Love hasn't set her sights on you, Yuki Judai… I always knew you would make an excellent disciple.”

“'Disciple’? Wait a sec, I didn't agree to this,” Judai whined. Because he wasn't an ungrateful person, especially to a precious mentor like Fubuki, Manjoume smoothed down his bangs and then made his grand appearance. They stayed in the living room, ending up on the couch.

Fubuki beamed.

“Ah, I see that my dear pupil is doing well. Or, should I say, ‘amazing’.”

Manjoume blinked down at the monstrosity he had peeled off the bedroom floor that morning, printed versions of Ojama Red and Ojama Blue declaring him to be, for the second time that week, 'Ojama-Amazing!”.

After batting at the oversized sleeves, Judai made a stupid declaration. “I think it's cute.”

“Why would anyone care what you think?” Manjoume snapped, and he would have said more if Fubuki's look of complete and utter horror hadn't silenced him.

“My dear pupil,” Fubuki began, raising one hand for effect, “those words do not foster an atmosphere of romance.” Even though the instrument itself was absent, Manjoume could’ve sworn that he had heard the distant thrum of ukulele strings, and Judai’s eyebrows were now at his hairline. “Although, if I’m being fair, the formal press conference you gave didn’t have that atmosphere either. Ah, the sorrows that a lover must endure… It moves me,” Fubuki added, and Judai made a choking noise.

Because laughing at Manjoume Thunder’s treasured mentor was unforgivable, Judai received an elbow to the ribcage.

“You don’t need words to insult me, do you?” Judai asked after throwing him a teasing smile, and Manjoume didn’t need to answer that, crossing his arms with a pointed scowl.

Behind Fubuki was a line of kitchen cabinets, the window in the gap showing a clear blue sky, and it wasn’t long until a squirming baby was unceremoniously dropped into his lap, several chubby fingers finding their way into Fubuki’s beard.

“Ah, she takes after her father,” Fubuki commented with perfect serenity, his daughter going for his shirt collar next. “She played her first card yesterday! That’s a sign she will become a master duelist! Breaking records and stealing hearts!” A spit bubble left behind a dark splotch, but Fubuki, unfazed, continued with that same proud voice. “Every detail of it will be kept scared in my memory for all of eternity! Watching my dear daughter grasp the Red-Eyes Black Dragon card… Watching her lay it down on the table! Lifting her into my arms!”

“Huh. This role actually fits you,” Judai said, and Fubuki immediately preened, tossing his shoulder-length hair with a well-practiced flick of his head. His daughter was dressed in all-matching pink clothes, the cat-print pads on her socks matching the patterned pants, shirt, and bib.

“I am skilled at many things,” was Fubuki’s enigmatic answer before he changed the subject, cradling his daughter with both hands. “But, returning to my main point, I still think the atmosphere of that conference could’ve been a lot better. Maybe by adding a flower arrangement… Changing the backdrop to be more, ah, decadent…”

“None of this was my…” Sighing, Manjoume shoved at his bangs and then tried again. “I…didn’t consider that, Fubuki-san. I understand why you would be disappointed by the result.”

Fubuki smiled. “My dear pupil in the ways of love, you haven’t forgotten my lessons, have you?”

Manjoume flinched. “Y-Your lessons? Of course not!”

A sage-like nod. “I’m glad to hear that. But, hmm, on second thought, I’m being too critical. After all, this wasn’t a confession scene!”

“…Yeah. Sure.”

“You know, I never _did_ ask for the details of that.”

“Excuse me?”

“What song did you play?”

“I...don't follow.”

Beaming, Fubuki leaned closer to the camera, the baby wiggling in his arms. “When you confessed to Judai, of course! Although, maybe I should ask, ‘What song did the band play?’ instead. As I’m sure you remember, I hired a quartet for my proposal. The fireworks over the canal added some nice ambiance.”

“The apprentice is about to disappoint the master,” Judai drawled, and Manjoume kicked him.

“I-I’m not…” He cleared his throat, and then he stalled because, _shit_ , what could he say?

“I think Asuka got all of the violins and poems,” was what Judai said next, wearing a ridiculous, boyish grin, and then everything went chaotic, the Ojamas popping in while Yubel’s cackles started up, all the sudden noise drowning out Fubuki’s urgent questions.

At the end of it, Manjoume found himself on the receiving end of a lecture from his long-time mentor on the importance of drama and romance in a committed relationship while Judai, with the painstaking patience that only a complete moron could maintain, tried to teach Fubuki's squirming daughter how to pronounce “Neos”.

There were better first words -- “Thunder” being the best option.

\---

By the time Manjoume had gutted the Dark Scorpions deck -- half of the cards now in the recycling bin as punishment for causing too many balance issues -- and started on a ‘revised edition’, his new phone had arrived in a sleek case branded with his insignia. Someone had taken the liberty of transferring all of the necessary components, meaning that his unread message count was high. Very high.

It should have been flattering.

“-since _I’m_ the one buying flowers all the time, and… You’re not listening to me, are you?”

Dropping the phone on the couch, Manjoume straightened, and he was faced with a smiling Judai, who, even though the call with Fubuki had ended over an hour ago, had _still_ managed to accomplish absolutely nothing. No cards had been sorted. No potential strategies had been identified.

He had many valid reasons to fire his ‘coach’.

“Why exactly would I waste time and effort on some elaborate setup for a complete moron like you?”

The smile angled higher. “Now, now. If you keep talking like that, I’ll have to call Fubuki back and tell him _all_ about how cruel you are.”

Manjoume narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

But when Judai raised his phone and ‘DIALING TENJOUIN’ appeared on the screen, Manjoume made a dive for his right arm, and the call clicked through just when he got a chokehold on Judai, who was laughing hard enough that his ribs had to hurt. Good. Perfect. Suffer, moron.

At the sound of Tenjouin Asuka’s voice, Manjoume startled and dropped Judai, which, given her creased expression, had clearly made for a great first impression.

“Nice shirt,” she said, deadpan, and Manjoume, again, grimaced at the dorky poses of Ojama Red and Ojama Blue. Maybe he should change, just in case Judai called any _more_ of his friends.

“Well, someone agrees with me,” Judai said from the floor, and that only made Manjoume grimace harder. And pretend to step on Judai.

Seriously injuring him would be inconvenient.

Asuka sat cross-legged on a faded blue couch, and she moved a textbook off her lap before answering. “I left a message last night because I wanted to give my congratulations. After all, we’ve all known each other for quite awhile now, haven’t we?” Brushing a strand of hair behind one ear, she added, “This situation makes it so apparent how far we’ve all come. I mean, I couldn’t have imagined the Manjoume I met at Duel Academia making it through a press conference like that, or even _agreeing_ to one in the first place.”

“If you’re trying to compliment me, you should be more direct,” Manjoume replied, and she laughed, a bright sound. With a dramatic sigh, Judai flopped onto the couch and rubbed at his neck, leaving Manjoume with the phone and its awkward, bulky red case. “Huh. Judai, if I broke this, then you’d have to get a new one.”

“Hey, hey. I…don’t like where you’re going with this.”

Something about Asuka’s expression stopped him from immediately arguing with Judai about that pointless topic, her eyes faraway for a moment, her hair falling out of place again. The whiteboard behind her, smudged grey and blue, was covered in her hurried scrawl. Cast-off ink marred her palm with small crosses.

The grey-red blur over her shoulder shifted, a small spirit directing a shy wave at the same, and the markings of the Cyber Angels showed next as strands of gold and silver.

“Back then, I would’ve…” Asuka stopped, and then she shook her head. “No, I probably wouldn’t have made a call like this. You would’ve missed out, Manjoume.”

“What do you mean?” The tilt of her eyebrows was close to condescending, and he moved the screen closer, bristling with curiosity. “H-Hey, just answer me!”

“Is that really necessary?”

At those words, Judai chuckled, and Manjoume shot him a warning glare. Curiosity turned to impatience.

“I hope you’re having fun, making me wait like this,” he snapped, and Asuka let out a deep sigh.

“Fine. I had a crush. Believe me when I say I’m over it, and it’s actually embarrassing to even-”

He dropped the phone.

And then he dove for it, clearing his throat in preparation for a grand speech.

“There’s no need to be embarrassed. After all, a crush on _me_? Please, how could that be humiliating for _anyone_? If anything, I’m flattered to learn of your past affection for me, even if the season of love has passed for the two of us.”

Asuka’s face twitched. “You have the wrong-”

“But, ah, it seems that my resilience did win you over, which shouldn’t be surprising since my earnest feelings combined with Fubuki-san’s mentorship could hardly be-”

“It wasn’t on _you_.”

There was an audible pause, and Manjoume blinked quickly, as if that simple action would reboot his brain and force the new information to make sense. But it _didn’t_ make sense, because then the person Asuka had a school-age crush on would’ve been-

Wait.

“If it wasn’t me, then… W-Wait…” When Manjoume whipped around, Judai was doing an excellent job of whistling to himself with his arms behind his head, looking at perfect peace with the world, as if it still made sense. But it _didn’t_ make sense because then-

Wait.

“Tenjouin, you actually… You actually liked _him_ of all people?!”

“Don’t sound so judgemental,” she muttered. “It’s not as if your situation was very different from mine.”

“Huh. Guess everyone was fighting over me,” was what Judai, tactless to a fault, said with a cheerful smile, and Manjoume’s glare intensified. Asuka sighed again.

“Let’s just say that I willingly took myself out of the competition,” she said with a scathingly dry humor, and Judai chuckled to himself, dragging a hand up his neck and through his hair. “To be honest, I hadn’t thought about those old feelings until we met up for the Duel Club’s tournament. Something had changed between you and Manjoume in a way that was different from a rivalry.” She paused, and her expression softened. “I was proud, in a sense. But, ah, it’s tough to explain, I think.”

Judai nodded. “I understand you, Asuka. Even if one of us struggles to move forward, it’s encouraging to see the progress everyone else has made, and that makes us all better in our own way.”

“I’m glad that we can talk like this again, Judai,” Asuka said, and her smile was beautiful, stunning. She spoke with conviction. “After graduation, we fell out of touch, didn’t we? From what I understand now, those times weren’t always easy for you, but I’m glad that you reached out to others when they became too much for you to handle alone. As you said, we have to encourage each other.”

“Sounds like we agree,” Judai replied, which was too simple, too short to answer what Asuka had said, but his smile matched her own. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think checking in was a good idea too. You’ve become quite a duelist, Asuka. Think you might outpace me?”

Her smile deepened into a smirk. “Is that a serious question?”

\---

“Okay, one more number…”

Looking up from the dining table strewn with cards, even more balanced on the back of the couch, Manjoume sneered at Judai, who was back to scrolling through his contacts on that outdated, phenomenally ugly excuse of a cellphone. The Ojamas had, unfortunately, shoved their way back into the apartment, Ojama Yellow strutting around the kitchen with a floral handkerchief tied around his bulbous head, providing yet-another distraction as Manjoume tried to sort cards for the failing-even-worse-than-before Dark Scorpions deck.

Judai, not to be undone, was _definitely_ more distracting than the Ojamas. His shirt had ridden up from when he had leaned against the table and stretched his arms over his head. More skin showed through the parallel tears that marked the back of his shirt.

“Your ability to procrastinate knows no limits,” Manjoume said, flipping a spell card before dropping it onto a different pile. One of Judai’s palms was flat on the tabletop. “It’s fitting that the only time you try to be ‘responsible’ is when you’re trying to avoid _another_ responsibility.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Judai replied with a pout. “I’m working on the new deck, just like you are.”

“Define ‘working’.”

“I’m thinking about it. I mean, I don’t need to throw cards everywhere to do _that_ , right?”

“You’re ’thinking’ about it,” Manjoume repeated, and Judai gave him a sharp nod.

“Yuki Judai is on the case! I have a one-hundred-percent success rate when it comes to fixing up new decks, so you might say I’m the world’s number-one deck consultant.” A pause, and then Judai, who looked _far_ too pleased with himself, added, “Hmmm, maybe a testimonial will convince you.”

He had guessed the call would end with Sho, Judai’s number-one supporter, but _instead_ it ended with Judai’s _other_ number-one supporter, Kenzan’s forearms rippling with mirrored tattoos of claws, feathers, and scales, the colour beginning at his biceps in slashes of vivid red and yellow. The bone-meets-teeth necklace clashed with the cheery green shirt Kenzan wore, printed with an extreme close-up of Pharaoh’s chubby face, and the infamous cat was belly-down on his lap. The bandana around Pharaoh’s collar was dinosaur-themed and nauseatingly adorable, horribly sweet enough to give him a cavity by sight alone. The velociraptors had kitty-cat earbands.

And, even though Manjoume had support spells to chose between, he still let the cards fall into a makeshift pile and threw his legs over the table, aware that the camera would catch the movement. His latest cup of tea rested on Don Zaloog’s card, a punishment for both being obnoxiously loud and retelling the same stealing-some-rare-junk-from-a-rich-lord story for the _third_ time that day, although the other bandits had cheered for it all the same. Ojama Yellow, predictable to the core, clearly took joy in stomping over the Dark Scorpion’s card as he sauntered around the room.

The jealousy of an Ojama, like everything _else_ to do with Ojamas, happened to be intense, noisy, and horrible to witness. Unnecessary hip-gyrating was involved.

Someone less stubborn than Manjoume would have already abandoned the new deck. Or thrown the Ojamas off the balcony for _real_ this time, instead of just dangling their cards over it like-

“-thanks for that! There’s a lot more energy with this one running around and knocking things over,” Kenzan said with a crooked finger until Pharaoh’s chin, and the purring intensified. With a stab of dark humor, Manjoume noticed that Kenzan’s bandana matched Pharaoh’s.

He couldn’t _not_ say something.

“Let me guess. You made _those_ yourself?” Manjoume said with a flick of his head, and Judai rolled his eyes.

“Hey, don’t make me apologize for your bad behaviour. When was the last time you talked to Kenzan?”

“When did we graduate again?”

“It’s weird correcting a famous guy like you, but I’ll do it if I have to,” Kenzan stated with a toothy smile. Like Asuka, Kenzan was studying. One major difference between them was that Manjoume, cursing to himself, couldn’t remember what the _fuck_ Kenzan’s subject was. Paleontology made the _most_ sense, but Kenzan had a rebellious streak, no matter how nice he played with Judai.

The name of the amateur-level tournament came next, and when Manjoume snapped his fingers, Kenzan’s smile showed more teeth. “Ah, of _course_. How could I forget someone who knocked the recently debuted New Kaiser out of an open bracket? I’ll have to remind him of the next time he storms into my dressing room, just to keep his ego in check.”

“Uh, didn’t you get taken out in the first round by-?”

“Irrelevant,” Manjoume declared. “The history of Manjoume Thunder is one of great trials that open the way to even greater rises, and-”

“So, you’re still using the dino deck I helped you with?” Judai asked, and Manjoume’s mouth clicked shut mid-sentence.

Rude.

He’d get Judai back for that _later_.

“Anything but my dinos would be totally wrong. I’ve made a few tweaks, but, you know, school gets in the way. I should be finishing up this one report for tonight, haha…”

“Right, because posting photos of Pharaoh with a bunny filter is _far_ more important,” Manjoume said, scrolling down his feed, and when Kenzan sputtered, Manjoume showed Judai the evidence. A cat. With a bunny filter.

“I’m starting to suspect that you’re spoiling him,” was Judai’s response, and the sputtering continued.

That chance tournament encounter had ended with Manjoume, Kenzan, and Sho piled into the booth at a cheap restaurant and arguing until the staff had started to close up, Sho loudly slurping soda through a straw while the three of them had trudged to Kenzan’s beat-up car, the back an assortment of on-brand stickers and decals. That the proud dinosaur duelist would end up snuggling Pharaoh’s cheeks on one end of a videocall, Manjoume himself on the other with Judai, who he had ended up _dating_ for some reason, was strange.

Not bad, of course. But the reality of it made him pause, his fingers rounding the corner of the table. His eyes passed over Judai’s back.

When Judai’s eyes met his own, they crinkled at the corners.

"B-Back on topic… I left you that message because this morning my neighbour was talking about the press meeting, since I went to school with everyone involved and therefore I'm an important person," Kenzan proclaimed. "It's good you're here too, Manjoume-san, since Judai-no-aniki is a cherished senpai of myself and many others as well. You shouldn't let your flashy career affect him too much if you can help it."

Everything jumped when Manjoume's elbow hit the table, including a shrieking Ojama Yellow. "A-Are you criticizing me? Don't forget the hierarchy here, Dino Boy, since _I'm_ the older, more established duelist, and… A-And _I'm_ way more of a valued upperclassman than this reckless idiot, so don't misrepresent the situation! Duel Academia has a scholarship in my name! I have a plaque at the entrance! A _plaque_ , you scale-loving piece of-”

"Speaking of what we shouldn't do," Judai added with a knowing grin, "maybe let's tone down on the yelling. You know, for the sake of our neighbours down the hall."

"There wouldn't be any neighbours if you had _agreed_ to one of the many penthouses I've sent your way, so-"

Clearing his throat, Kenzan interrupted with, "Uh, should we have this call later? Seems like you're in the middle of a domestic…thing, especially since the place behind you two is a total mess-"

“I’m working! This is what working looks like!” The declaration ended with Manjoume swinging one arm out and sending more cards to the floor. They were the cards he had just organized.

Shit.

Of their alumni, he had thought Sho was the closest with Kenzan, considering that his professional rival would, at any available chance, explode into a triad against that ‘over-confident, dino-obsessed’ duelist. Then again, Judai was the one who had left piles of belongings at Kenzan’s place, not to mention the purring, overfed cat who was now happily shedding on Kenzan’s torn shorts. Manjoume drummed his fingers on the tabletop in thought, eventually deciding that Judai had _probably_ dragged Kenzan into some card-game-related conspiracy after graduation and later thanked him for the assistance by unloading the living hairball machine known as Pharaoh onto him.

If nothing else, Judai never seemed to run out of stories.

When Kenzan held Pharaoh up to the camera, balancing the chubby cat on his back legs and putting both hands under his front legs, the purring changed to a loud meowing.

“The vet says he’s in pretty good shape for an old cat. Although, his new diet is taking awhile to show any results,” Kenzan added, bouncing the cat a little. “I think my neighbour’s feeding him through the window again.”

“Probably. Pharaoh can be very persuasive,” Judai said.

Kenzan turned his frown to the cat, who blinked very slowly.

“Is that true, buddy?”

Another blink.

“This is creeping me out,” Manjoume stated, and Judai rolled his eyes.

“Says the guy who talks about Ojamas in his sleep.”

“…Wait, what? I don’t-”

“So, Kenzan,” Judai said with a suspicious cough, “have you had any other problems with Pharaoh? All of this was pretty sudden, now that I think about it.”

“You’re supposed to be thinking about my deck,” Manjoume muttered to himself, but he still focused on Kenzan’s reply, given after a quick adjustment of Pharaoh’s paws.

“Well, he keeps setting off my Dino Instincts. I’ve gotten used to it by now, but, I mean, it’s still weird.”

“Oh, that's probably because of Daitokuji-sensei moving around. Seems like anything spirit-related is picked up by your enhanced senses.”

When Kenzan just sat there and stared at them, Manjoume, seized by a horrifying realization, grabbed Judai and shook him. Hard.

“W-What was that for?!”

“You didn't tell him about Daitokuji-sensei?!”

Judai shrugged. “Everyone knows about Daitokuji-sensei.”

Kenzan just kept staring at them, and then he finally asked, “Uh, who's Daitokuji-sensei again?”

Manjoume had to clutch at his ribs, and his cackles rose even higher as Judai continued to insist that, quote, “I-I told you! I definitely told you!!” while Kenzan shouted back with, quote, “L-Like Hell you did! ‘Can you take care of the cat?’ is different than 'Can you take care of the cat, who, by the way, has swallowed the soul of my dead alchemy professor?’”

“Kenzan, you had to know he was there.”

“What?! Why? How?!”

“B-Because I told you!”

“No, you…” With bulging eyes, Kenzan slapped a hand over his forehead. “Wait. Pharaoh’s been here and been…everywhere, so… H-How could you not tell me?!?”

“He's looking positively carnivorous,” Yubel drawled, and Judai shot them a pained look.

Manjoume was having an excellent time, minus the fact that he couldn't talk because of all the cackling. And his ribs.

But what Judai said next was decidedly less hilarious.

“Okay, well, if it's a problem, I can pick my cat up, since I'm not traveling that much anymore again… Uh, Manjoume? You'd split with me for a pet sitter, right?”

“Not a fucking chance.”

Kenzan had a different problem, his arms visibly clenching. “What'd you mean _your_ cat?”

“He's my cat!” Judai yelped.

“Our cat, technically,” Yubel added. Next, the space over Kenzan shimmered, a faint outline of a human figure forming. Daitokuji-sensei, the same as ever with a cryptic smile.

“Ah, I had him first…”

Kenzan cleared his throat. “So, Judai-no-aniki, if he's your cat, then you won't mind getting the bill for Pharaoh’s flea medication, would you?”

Judai shared a quick look with Yubel and his former teacher, and then he said, “On second thought, he's your cat. Definitely your cat.”

\---

The Dark Scorpion deck needed to take advantage of its monster effects, as anything else would be a total waste of time, and, pushing two fingers into his temple, Manjoume considered his options for the thousandth time that hour, the empty take-out trays piled on one side of the table. The sky outside had become streaked with dark blue, falling towards jet black.

Given that his card was currently under a dented sauce container, Don Zaloog’s penchant for boisterous shouting and telling those random, rambling stories had not improved over the course of the night, which, despite the piles of cards, unsorted and sorted alike, had yet to be productive. The deck remained a clogged mess, like a dish with too many competing flavours and elements, the product of some over-ambitious chef.

Like the Ojamas, the Dark Scorpions had many, _many_ opinions about what possible deck they would end up in, and, like the Ojamas, they had the almost-impressive ability of never saying anything useful.

After picking up the other Dark Scorpions – Chick the Yellow, Cliff the Trap Remover, Maenae the Thorn, and Gorg the Strong – for a beat, Manjoume dropped them with a heavy sigh because, _okay_ , maybe this would be a complete and utter disaster, no matter _how_ hilarious the thought of taking a second game off Edo Phoenix with that set of underused cards was.

Then again, a loss to a deck like that would probably make Edo retire on principle, which would only add to the hilarity. And open up yet-another redemption arc for the hero-user.

“See? He’s giving up on us!” Chick announced, almost giddy. “Oi, Gorg, you owe me three bottles now!”

“You shouldn’t root _against_ the Dark Scorpions if you _are_ a Dark Scorpion,” Maenae corrected, and she thumped her fellow band-member on the head with a sake bottle. How the Dark Scorpions, despite being spirits, always managed to have a steady stream of alcohol and party games made absolutely zero sense, but Manjoume knew better than to bother the researchers at Industrial Illusions about that inconsistency.

If there was an answer, then it was probably stupid enough to make him regret knowing it in the first place.

Despite the precarious status of his card, Don Zaloog roared with laughter. “Ha! Hey, do you all remember the time when-”

“Finish that sentence,” Manjoume warned, “and you’re going in the garbage next.”

“That would be the set-up for a very daring escape,” Don Zaloog said, and Manjoume sighed again, his forehead connecting with the table.

“See, I used to wonder if there was an advantage to all of this duel-spirit nonsense, but the truth has been staring me in the face this whole time.”

The chair across from his slid out. “Manjoume…”

“ _What_?”

“What’s the point of this new deck anyways?”

He snorted. Judai’s questions could be blunt. “Oh? Haven’t you heard that Manjoume Thunder is known for his surprising decks? Dragons, mechanical monsters… There’s nothing I can’t conquer, including your precious warrior-type monsters.”

“So, you just feel like it?”

“…Yeah? Why else would I be doing any of this?”

Judai hummed, and Manjoume almost looked up when he heard the objects on the table being moved, cards shifting to new positions. Winged Kuriboh trilled. “I wonder if anyone in particular has inspired you to try out warrior monsters, maybe including a certain Elemental Hero user with legendary dueling skills.”

“I’m going to kick you if you keep talking like that.”

“At least you’re warning me,” Judai countered, a smile changing his voice. Manjoume knew exactly what that smile would look like, exactly how it would change the angles of his profile. “This, err, current version of the deck here…”

“What about it?”

“A lot of people say that a deck is a reflection of a duelist's soul, and that's why I'm thinking about a nice way to put this.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“Some minor revisions are needed, my dear pupil,” Judai said in a Fubuki-esque voice, and, propping his chin on his palm, Manjoume watched Judai swap cards with smooth motions, hums filling the gaps between his words. Long strands of hair curled by his jawline, and they fell out of place again when he suddenly reached down and flipped his deck holster open, and Manjoume said nothing, stunned, when Judai flipped two spell cards out of his main deck and put them over Maenae the Thorn. “Some surprises for later, when we’re testing this out,” Judai explained with a wink, and Manjoume _could_ have predicted what those cards were, most likely support spells for warriors, _but_ -

Groaning, he buried his head in his hands. “Judai, you idiot…”

“Hey, hey. I’m just trying to help,” Judai replied, and he had to be smiling wider now, showing those elongated canines. Without confirmation, Manjoume knew his own face was red enough to form a matching set with Ojama Red’s, which was a major fucking problem.

Damn it.

“H-How am I supposed to go on stage and play _your_ cards?”

“I…think you’d put one of them in your duel disk, like a regular card.”

Judai dodged Manjoume’s kick.

“Smart ass.”

“Ah, I can't go on knowing that the great Manjoume Thunder doesn't like my cards. It’s too much for a duelist to _bear_.”

He shot up. “I didn't say that, you-”

Suddenly Manjoume found himself blinking at a familiar hand gesture. “Gotcha,” Judai stated, his smile wild. “You just like me more than my cards, right?”

And after a few turns with the new deck, Manjoume _had_ to admit Judai knew exactly what he was doing. The odd pieces had started to fit together, still clumsy but in a way he could _work_ with, strategies flitting in and out as he faced down a pack of Elemental Heroes. Judai played with deceptive ease. His gaze was intense, pierced by green and orange in narrow, branching shapes, like the veined shards of fallen leaves. Playing with weaker monsters suited Manjoume, weak relative to the high-attack fusions Judai brought out within the next turn, and Manjoume swore when he broke through Judai’s line. The move had followed the lucky turn of a spell card, one that belonged to someone else.

Each move left him on the edge of ruin, but with the potential for _more_ , for a victory hard-earned. When he saw a chance, he took it, drawn to it like a lightning strike to a metal conductor. Even failure made him grin.

“The Ojama deck will be my main competitive deck, of course,” he explained while he shuffled, Judai’s victory penciled into a new column, “but this could add some much-needed interest to, say, an exhibition duel, especially if my opponent’s playing something the public’s seen a thousand times. Such mindless actions will draw attention to myself and my brilliant playstyle.”

“‘Brilliant’, huh…” Judai repeated, and then he laughed, devilish with the traces of Yubel. “Well, all of that sounds like quite the compliment to your deck consultant. I’m honoured.”

Focused, Manjoume continued. “Dueling is about revealing a part of yourself, no matter how messy or strange it may be at first. I should inspire others to have the same outlook, and that means being honest in the cards I choose, always.”

“Hmmm. That’s a lot of responsibility, too much for a guy like me,” was all Judai said, but the focus remained, lurking behind the green that remained, suspended in place. “You know, you turned bright red when I gave you those cards. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised that new cards get a professional duelist more flustered than flowers.”

“It’s…not that,” Manjoume muttered, and his first impulse was to say something sarcastic, to deflect. The Dark Scorpions, in the middle of some drinking game, had moved to the next room, and the Ojamas were decked out in their sleeping caps and slippers, a series of judgemental look directed at the other monsters. Raking a hand through his hair, Manjoume leaned back in his chair, and then he let his raised hand drop to his side. “If I play one of your cards during a match, it’s going to make me think of the person who owns it. Maybe that’s your real strategy, to get inside my head like that.”

“You’re acting like I have a strategy in the first place,” Judai said, his eyes locked on Manjoume’s own, and the contact was like something tangible, like fingers trailing the high points of his face. “Although, I’ll have to get new copies of those cards since they are pretty useful.”

“Take mine. There should be extras on my desk, in the far-right stack,” Manjoume stated, and then he scoffed, shaking his head a little. “Only you would make such a straightforward action as changing cards so complicated.”

Sliding his chair out, Judai crossed the room, and he gave the cheering Scorpions a quick wave. Winged Kuriboh followed with a low hoot. Seized by a sudden impulse, Manjoume spread out the new Dark Scorpion deck, its pieces designed to swarm the field and wrest control from his opponent with heavy spell and trap support, leaving the overall count of monster cards low. Judai’s two copies of The Warrior Returning Alive were faded at the corners, the material worn down from repeat use, and Manjoume ran his thumb over the text.

And then Judai was across from him again, grinning as he tilted his head and said, “We’re really a couple if we’re swapping cards.”

“As if _that’s_ the main criteria,” Manjoume countered, and only seconds remained before he gave in, pushing himself up to lean over the table and kiss Judai, chapped lips meeting his own. He felt it when Judai smiled into the contact.

\---


	27. Straying (Even Further Than This)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the end.

**\---**

Manjoume Thunder’s official colour was a steel blue, emboldened when offset by a brighter colour, like the yellow that wreathed his next-edition insignia. Crowds lifted the symbol high when he drew his duel disk, the cards he played unpredictable, perilous things that only drove the cheers higher, a fitting backtrack for one as ambitious as himself -- a challenger on the world’s stage, a duelist with a reputation he had earned. That same reputation followed him like the trailing fabric of his dueling coats, those zig-zagged, ripped tears worn with pride.

Fueled by the echoes of distant stadiums, taken in by the addictive rhythm of this competitive world, he continued to push forward, always announcing his attacks with a clear voice and an outstretched arm. The voices of his spirits would be loud in his ears, but they never could overtake the roar of the crowd, enthralled by and joined with every precious moment.

New challengers emerged from the low ranks. New rivalries were sparked so easily, and the turn of a single card -- bold like the flare of a falling star, like the burst of a night’s first firework -- could change everything in an instant.

Sometimes he left the vaulted stadiums of the Pro League behind for the chipped white steps and grooved dark wood of the Ojama’s village, the statue that towered over its small, clustered houses usually ringed with banners or flowers. The rain had made its expression even more lop-sided and strange over time, but telling the Ojamas to fix _that_ would probably just make the statue look even worse.

Bell would greet him with ringing chirps, her wide, cat-like eyes peering up at him through that horizontal gap in her high, curved shell, the broken section patched-over with scraps of fabric, and the Ojamas would be a blur of activity around her, their high-pitched arguments cut by their even-higher-pitched laughter. Sometimes Judai would tag along, and _that’s_ when Bell’s chirps would drown out everything else. The way they circled each other, Bell bouncing on her two paws while Judai rambled with one hand behind his head, was so _endearing_ that if always left Manjoume with too many poetic metaphors in his head, all flowery enough that saying any _one_ of them would ruin his cool image.

Plus, Judai already teased him too much about his sensitive side, usually with a taunting, dimpled grin and a sharp poke to his ribcage. In the spirit world, leaves and clouds would press through Judai’s image, transparent yet splitting the colours behind it, diluting them like water spread through wet ink.

After the start of the next Pro League season, Judai came back to their apartment with one sleeve of his red jacket burnt, red marks on his exposed hand and wrist, and a card pressed between two pieces of cardboard in an attempt to stop it from splitting apart. At the first ripple of that faint static, Manjoume was on his feet and dragging Judai back out the door while he punched in a direct line to Dr. Krenshaw.

He had expected Judai to complain the whole drive there, but the back of the car had been pressurized by a heavy silence between them, underlain by the static of _whatever_ it was Judai had rescued this time, already babbling against the inside of his skull.

Eventually -- with the fluorescent lights of the doctor’s office overhead, with two stiff-backed chairs set up for them in front of the wide desk -- Judai explained what had happened, the static rising whenever he paused. He had been at the street market when a duel had broken out between the stands, and one of the duelists, claiming that any weak cards should just disappear, had not sent a destroyed low-attack monster into the graveyard slot of his duel disk, but instead had made a show of opening the fuel tank on his scooter, dumping the contents over a full trash barrel, and flicking on a lighter as he raised the monster card, balancing it over the initial surge of flame.

That sort of ridiculous, over-dramatic situation would _only_ happen to Judai, and Manjoume clenched his teeth together hard, his white-knuckled hands shaking on his knees because, fuck, none of this was fair. Those old scars had only _just_ knitted back together again, and no foul-tempered delinquent had the fucking right to mess with that progress, slow like the rise of morning light through dark clouds. The fall of a deep shadow could take it away, killing the rise of that precious thing.

Because he couldn’t wring that assailant’s neck, Manjoume eventually settled for strangling his Ojama Yellow keychain, twisting the plastic in his pocket and relishing every creak and slow, drawn-out crack.

“Luck must’ve been on her side,” Judai said, smiling a little as he glanced at the desk, the card on it scorched and delicate but, somehow, intact. The portrait had lost its colours. The material bulged and distorted the text. “I thought I’d lost her, but when I pulled my hand out, the card was still there.” Yubel’s scales must have taken the brunt of the fire, the only marks on Judai faint cross-hatches of red, edging towards purple. “I…didn’t have a choice. I had to save her, and… Well, you get the idea, don’t you?”

“Because of your previous work with us, we now understand how to properly rehabilitate injured duel spirits.” Dr. Krenshaw had been silent until then, her thin fingers steepled on the desk. “Judai, if you have the energy for it, we can get started now. From what I understand, the longer a spirit stays joined with you, the harder the separation process is.”

“From my perspective, it’s hard no matter what,” Judai said, sardonic, and Manjoume stared at him, just _stared_ as he processed those details, every last one including the new cut of his blackened sleeve and the familiar mirror-dark of his eyes.

“Judai, you’re not going back to the person you used to be, closed-off and reckless. You did the right thing by intervening, and I’m not going to let you make any mistakes now. I swear that to you.”

Those words sounded stilted and over-thought to Manjoume, even though _he_ was the one saying them, but they still got through to Judai, his smile losing its forced edge for a moment. A strain showed through the unsteady line of his shoulders, the apparition of a clawed hand stroking along his collarbone and over his back.

“Thanks, Manjoume.” After another glance at the card, Judai continued. The static had softened. “I thought I’d get yelled at for bringing another stray into the apartment. You’re going easy on me again, and I really shouldn’t complain about the, ah, preferential treatment, but…”

“I’m saving my rant for later, that’s all.”

Their eyes met, and then Judai laughed, an honest sound.

The question of what happened to that fire-hungry duelist was shelved until they had left the research center, Manjoume striding towards the car with his hands in his pockets, his head tilted back to take in the night sky, and Judai at his side, their steps in synch. The static was there for now. The researchers would consult their database for a duelist who could take in the shattered water-attribute monster, and Judai would contain its fear until then, a guardian against those memories of a cruel world.

It was entirely possible that a paranoid billionaire like Pegasus had every millimeter of the property wired, but Manjoume decided to take the risk. His patience had run out, to the point that he _might_ start shaking Judai for answers.

“Ah, those events will have to stay between me and Yubel,” was Judai’s immediate response, and this time Manjoume did shake him. “J-Joking, j-joking! C-Can you really blame me for building some suspense?”

“ _Yes_ , I fucking can.”

“That security guard is making a report,” Yubel drawled, and Manjoume reluctantly dropped his rival-turned-boyfriend with a scowl.

In hindsight, a genius-level tactician like Manjoume Thunder should have been able to guess that the duel-obsessed Yuki Judai would solve the conflict in an extremely obvious way -- an impromptu duel in a back alley, the hero emerging victorious. Defeat changed the other duelist.

A determination like Judai’s could be extremely persuasive, the magnetic pull of it growing stronger with every second.

“Yubel wanted to take a more, ah, direct method, if you get my meaning,” Judai admitted, and it earned him a pout from his soulmate, draped across his shoulders in the backseat.

“Now, now. Your gentle heart is what I love the most about you, my dear.” Yubel’s whisper dropped even lower as they nudged their cheek against Judai’s, and Manjoume felt something in his face twitch when their gaze found him. “Although, valiant and brave guards can help protect such a precious thing. Wouldn’t you agree, Jun-chan?”

“Murdering people is bad for publicity. Usually.”

“Ah, who said anything about ‘murder’? Intimidation is the far, _far_ more entertaining part.”

“Judai,” Manjoume said quickly, “I’ve decided that the water-thing in your head is the least of your problems. Remind me, for _how_ long has this freeloader been corrupting your thoughts?”

“‘Corrupting’, huh…” Letting out a low whistle, Judai considered it. “Sorry, Manjoume, but I enjoy those thoughts too much to stop now. Yubel’s very entertaining, although you already know that, don’t you?”

“…I’m not complimenting that overgrown lizard.”

But the static had cleared after only a few days, and because Judai really was lucky to a ridiculous extent, no unflattering media reports about Manjoume Thunder’s partner being set on fire and _then_ playing an emotionally-charged card game in a random alley had surfaced in the media.

Until that static had cleared, parts of Judai had changed, his concentration snapping during their duels, leaving him blinking wide-eyed down at the field, and forcing unnatural, _long_ gaps into his sentences, gaps in which the static would burst and flare out. Judai had slept less, the nightmares different from the usual ones -- twisted memories of scorched ground and death, death after death. Manjoume would snap awake at the first desperate scream -- reaching for Judai’s sweat-soaked face, broken apologies falling between his hurried gasps.

But, with his hands trailing over bare sheets, Manjoume would instead find himself awake because Judai would be sitting on the edge of the bed, his stare locked on something unseen past the window, his perfect stillness haunting.

Moving too fast would shatter it. A flash of the spirit’s fear would pass over Judai’s face, and -- fighting against the pure ice surging through him, a terror that he had could only endure -- Manjoume would wait until it vanished. His hands would find Judai’s shoulders, and he said nothing when Judai would lean against him, the exhaustion stark and forcing new shadows below Judai’s eyes.

But storms clouds always gave out in the end, and their darkness would only contrast with the light that spilled through.

\---

Because Manjoume had, quite literally, hurled a new cellphone at Judai -- one he had argued with three sales assistants over to ensure that, yes, its top-of-the-line camera could withstand any amount of shaking and abrupt tilting -- the number of travel photographs from him had increased exponentially, which _usually_ wasn’t a good thing. Since many ultra-rich, ultra-powerful figures in the dueling world were interested in the spirit world, those pictures had included the crystal-blue waters outside of Pegasus’s latest oceanside mansion and the impressive, sprawling view from Kaiba’s personal heliport-slash-mansion-slash-tower. Sometimes the views were less, ah, _prestigious_ , Judai sending him cluttered alleyways layered with clotheslines, canopies, and arching trees; cities in the dead of night with wide, empty streets; and isolated clearings ringed by thick forests, all colours melding together under the shadows of their leaves. Manjoume’s phone background was set to a photo like that: Judai under thin, green branches dashed with red petals and throwing a victory sign at the camera.

But Judai was missing the greatest view of all.

No picture could capture the feeling of standing before an enraptured crowd, and, even if Manjoume tried to hold it back, that thought, that _need_ , to show Judai the streaming lights could overwhelm him. It would push into his final turn during a climatic, well-fought duel, and his heart would pound faster than before.

\---

_“Manjoume, it’s your call. I’ll join you on stage whenever you want me to.”_

_“…I could give you that sight easily. It’s…what I’ve really achieved, after all of this time.”_

\---

That view remained unseen by Judai, and, settled into his first-class seat on an international flight, his chin balanced on his knuckles as the landing announcement rattled on, Manjoume knew he had to close that gap.

They were drawing closer even now, set on a collision course that had been ignited by a single day. Those autumn leaves had fallen as Judai had slid out a chair across from him. Grey shadows had drifted over Judai before drifting away, becoming nothing.

\---

At the sight of his entrance form for a pair's tournament, his partner's name already filled in, Misako had dropped her phone. A beat passed, and then she straightened and said, “It’s good to show your fans a new side of yourself. I’m sure the president will feel the same way.”

Their agency’s president opened the meeting on that subject by saying, “Ah, young love. Is there anything more moving than it?” Although, the older man was quick to add, “You’ll remember to watch your language during the broadcast, won’t you? A couple’s argument can be like a force of nature.”

“In your case, it would be a thunderstorm,” Misako said with a straight face, and the president let out a hearty laugh when Manjoume glared at her.

\---

Because the Ojama’s resentment would reach critical levels if he played a not-Ojama deck too often, the Dark Scorpions rarely had a chance to show themselves on stage, their successive appearances being even rarer. Their debut match had been an absolute victory. His opponent had been completely caught off-guard, their own deck stacked with anti-fusion traps and spells to combat Ojama Knight and Ojama King.

In interviews, Manjoume Thunder had given the credit to his natural affinity for dueling, the Ojamas complaining in the background while the Dark Scorpions clicked sake glasses together.

Therefore, as the pair’s tournament loomed closer, Manjoume had a decision to make -- Ojamas or Dark Scorpions? Dragons were another option, as were mechas. Judai’s deck complicated matters, as they would share a field, graveyard, and life points. There should be _some_ level of synergy, although Manjoume drew the line at shoving any over-muscled monsters wearing leotards and claiming to fight for ‘justice’ or ‘peace’ into one of his own decks.

He scratched deck lists into the corners of his interview notes, turning potential cards over and over in his head as the backstage chaos surged around him. He would jolt out of a daze with a potential combo on the edge of his mind, fleeting and quick to scatter, and find himself reaching for a pen or his phone or _something_ to record that flash of genius, integral to taking victory. And, in a moment like that, the energy that moved him was strong. It made him smile and, to quote Ojama Yellow, ‘cackle like a scary person’.

He was fine with that description. After all, _any_ opponent against himself and Judai should suffer horribly.

He wanted to bring out a colossal strength. He wanted to let Judai soar when the lights were on, because only then could that view reach its full potential. A sea of lights. The heavy fall of those tremendous, earth-shaking cheers.

Victory, suspended for a moment of brilliance.

\---

Although, the biggest challenge to winning a pair’s duel with Yuki Judai was, of _course_ , Yuki fucking Judai.

“W-What do you mean you ‘made some adjustments’?!”

“I just changed some cards last night. Not a big deal,” Judai explained, and Manjoume twitched.

“Oi, slacker.”

“…Should I really keep answering to that nickname? I’m only setting myself up for more insults in the future, so-”

“We have ten minutes, so start explaining. Quickly,” Manjoume snapped out, and, to make his point _explicit_ even to a total scatterbrain, he flung his arm out and gestured at the entranceway to their left, the booming loudspeakers building the hype towards the first match of Manjoume Thunder and Yuki Judai. The crowd was sold-out. Their opponents, according to the program, were Waxling and Amboria, top-ranked professionals from the Pro League who had teamed up to take second in that very tournament last year.

So, _yeah_. Time was running down, fast.

When Manjoume had slid the application form towards his manager, he had _maybe_ , perhaps, if he was being _extremely_ critical of his own actions, underestimated the challenge of a tournament like the 12th Cornucopia Revolution Cup, which had a name considered ridiculous even by the Pro League’s standards. The majority of the entrants were not from the Pro League’s official pairs division, but rather they were members from the usual Pro League who had then teamed up with other duelists of a similar caliber. The low stakes, in terms of individual rankings, let those duelists experiment with new decks. The unexpected dynamics drew in high viewership counts.

The excitement of that first spark, that first turn, burned in Manjoume’s veins, and it only intensified when Judai met his stare over the spread-out deck and smiled wide.

“So, what’s your verdict?”

He folded Judai’s cards back together, the flickers of the Neo-Spacians moving against his skin. “It could work. Your cards can clear and disrupt the opponents’ field, which would allow my Dark Scorpions to slip through and access the hand, the deck… We can lock them out of every move.”

“No duelist would like to be put in a position like that,” Judai stated, and he took the deck back with narrowed eyes, his smile close to that of Yubel’s. Teasing. Arrogant.

Pleased.

“Any duelist would fight back with everything they had,” Manjoume answered with his own wolfish smirk, shameless across his face because, damn, this _had_ to be good. Judai was serious, and not because some duel-crazed cult was trying to take over the world or a random, self-serving megalomaniac was ripping duel spirits out of their cards, but because of a duel they both wanted, because a chance had showed itself and they could take it, _conquer_ it.

The click of her studded heels signaled her arrival, and Misako appeared with a stack of papers tucked under one arm and a crooked hand by her folded-up headset. “Thunder. Judai. If Yubel is here, then I extend my greetings to them as well.”

“Yubel’s sort of… To prepare for the duel, we’ve kind of…” Judai made a series of gestures that explained nothing, one like he had just caught a spider and was trying to stop it from escaping. Manjoume silently reassessed their chances of victory.

“You’re fused, correct?”

“Yeah! Right!” Judai exclaimed. “Although, Yubel appreciates the shout-out. Or, err, I should say that ‘we’ appreciate it… Wait, is talking like that backstage weird? Uhh…”

Manjoume threw his bangs back and ran a hand down his face. “My confidence in my partner is falling. Rapidly.”

“You’re smudging your eyeliner.”

“That’s my aesthetic, isn’t it?”

“Just hold still,” she ordered before jabbing at his right eye with her thumb, which was a pleasant experience. She also changed the subject. “Are the Ojamas here as well?”

“That’s _actually_ why you’re backstage with us, isn’t it?” Manjoume muttered, and Misako swiftly ignored him. Which naturally meant that he was one-hundred-percent right.

Even though Manjoume had taken painstaking efforts to explain the Ojamas many, _many_ personal failings, his own manager -- determined and steadfast in everything she did -- still insisted that their knowledge of Manjoume Thunder could be useful in some way. With the help of Judai’s weird spirit-projection technique, she had been able to see and hear them multiple times, the ugly, burping trio of brothers in particular, and the last visit had ended with Manjoume gaping in absolute horror while his competent, intelligent manager giggled at one of Ojama Yellow’s puns.

“They…don’t seem to be around,” Judai said with a shrug. “Maybe if you compliment them a few times, they’ll wake up. Seems to have worked before, and-”

Whipping around, Manjoume blurted out, “What, are you _trying_ to sabotage me?! Not having those three-to-five idiots in my ears _constantly_ will make this duel better, so don’t you dare try to-!”

“Before the match began,” Misako clarified while jabbing _again_ at Manjoume’s eye socket, her acrylic nails dangerously close, “I wanted to check whether or not you had any remaining questions or concerns, Judai. After all, this is your first televised duel in over five years. Even a seasoned professional would be nervous.”

“He’s not nervous,” Manjoume said, and Judai grinned at him, a confirmation.

The transparent edges of Yubel were visible now, pressing up through the lines of Judai’s worn jacket, open and with the collar turned up. The grey turtleneck had probably been taken off the bedroom floor that morning, same for the faded jeans and the taped-over boots. His deck holster was worn to its breaking point, thin, white creases marring the dark material, a cluster of vertical lines by the clasp, and if Manjoume focused on those cards, pushing away how Misako yanked his lapels into place and then muttered something about his hair, he could almost hear their voices chiming together. Syllables would form and then slip away, like clear water through his outstretched fingers. An unseen presence would be over him, looming.

When he had held Judai’s cards -- nodding along as, eager, Judai had leaned over him and pointed at their effects -- his thoughts had turned to starlight, as if he was seeing its pale shades beyond the thin, worn-down material of those cards, as if he could see into Neo-Space, that distant nexus of pulsing dark and light. With a fused soul, Judai saw things that he could not, but, now, this time-

This time they would have the same view, and the announcer’s voice boomed out to a captive crowd, the seconds drawing the scripted dialogue closer and closer to their names.

“So, Thunder, are you worried I’ll outshine you?” Judai’s grin showed his sharp canines, shadows gathered near his bright eyes, pierced by broad veins of gold. And Manjoume knew how it felt to press against the power of the Supreme King, just like he knew the onslaught of Yuki Judai playing at his best.

To be beside it, to join with it, would be something new.

“Only a fool would underestimate me. Just try to keep up, slacker.”

That grin spread even further.

“I won’t let you down.”

\---

If he had the option, Manjoume would have made his entrance on a throne carried by a legion of supporters in his colours. Or while posing on a horse-drawn chariot, the banners hanging off it streaming with his insignia as the decorated horses surged forwards and circled the arena.

Citing conflicts with the tournament’s organizers, Misako had taken the proverbial axe to his suggestions.

Instead, he took his floor marker next to Judai, at the end of a long hallway splayed with cast-off light from the video screens that encircled the main arena. The crowd was hushed, and the announcer passed over Manjoume’s last professional duel -- a victory over X, ten turns -- and then lowered his voice for dramatic effect, so _close_ to their names.

Anticipation twisted, electric in the air between them.

“Just follow my lead.”

“Hey, when it’s the two of us, I’m usually the one who leads.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Is it?”

The parting lights sank to a dark blue, and Manjoume took a step forward, his studded dueling jacket flaring behind him. A drumming sound, amplified by the thousands of feet stamping at once, shook the walls, and next was a boom, a surge of pure noise because the announcer was almost there, shouting and shouting as he cleaved through the remaining script. This was only the first round, Manjoume thought as Judai matched his strides. What lay after this would be even more intense. Higher stakes would tighter the vice that controlled this pressure.

He looked over. Rigid outlines in blue passed over Judai’s face, over his low smirk and its wild edge.

“-of Manjoume Thunder and, in a surprising move, his partner, the hero duelist Yuki Judai!”

The straight path took them onto the stage, pyrotechnics bursting in the air and scattering a low, grey smoke that distorted the pulsing lights, blue on red. Covered in holopanels, the stage itself flowed with rushing dragons and heroes, scales followed by capes, and Manjoume walked slower than he usually did, his head tilted to the side, his eyes on only one person even when the cheers circled back to his name again. His headset was wired, and he could have snapped the microphone into position. He could have responded and let the familiar beats of his chant take over, but-

But he needed to focus on this, on the way Judai gaped at the stands curving over them and whispered, “Okay, now I get it.”

“No, not yet.” The curve of blue on Judai’s jawline split into red, and, damn, Manjoume’s hands were shaking. He probably had a stupid, _stupid_ grin on his face, everything visible to the circling cameras, but it didn’t fucking matter. The anticipation raced through his veins. It changed everything, and he watched the colours darken in Judai’s wide eyes, the focus there gathering. “Judai, we haven’t won yet. Make no mistake, this isn’t the best part.”

“Guess I’ll have to give it my all then,” was all Judai said before the announcer returned, his booming call answered by thousands of shouts from the stands. When Manjoume stopped on his mark, Judai was next to him. Judai threw out one arm in a wide, arching wave, and it was answered. The crowd cheered.

It was as if the hero had finally returned.

\---

“-known for volatile and eye-catching plays. Moderator Igarashi-san, do you have any predictions for Manjoume Thunder’s deck tonight? Can we expect Ojamas, Deck Scorpions, or maybe even a return to dragons?”

“My instincts tell me to focus on the other duelist involved, as, if you can excuse the pun, the real wildcard here tonight is his partner, Yuki Judai. From what little amateur footage we have, it seems that Judai plays a hero-monster deck with a wide array of possible fusion summons. Of course, some reports have shown that he utilizes fiend monsters as well.”

“Uh… R-Right! Excellent point! Uh…” In his earpiece, Manjoume heard the unmistakable rustle of the junior moderator’s notes. “Uh… I-In case any of our viewers at home missed the big news, Team Thunder is also a real-life couple, which…”

“I believe my fellow moderator _trying_ to say,” Igarashi interjected, “that tonight’s duel might answer a question that many of our viewers are thinking to themselves right now. Namely, if sparks fly off the field, does it mean that they’ll also fly on the field?”

“Y-Yeah, and… U-Up next, we have our own Sakura-chan heading over for a quick chat with our first team! Let’s get our first glimpse of Team Thunder’s dynamic, live here at KCP Stadium!”

“Why’re they using your title?” Judai asked, and Manjoume did not privilege that with an answer, scowling as he watched the young reporter make a bee-line towards them from the sidelines, her idol-like pigtails swinging rapidly.

“Something’s not right here,” he mumbled before switching channels. “Misa-”

“I’m already investigating,” his manager said, the words clipped.

“A production issue?”

“I can’t say,” she replied, and then the line cut out. More questions had been raised than answered, leaving Manjoume with a slight frown as he lowered his hand. Strange.

Very strange.

Even when she rocked forward on her bubble-gum pink platforms, Sakura’s head barely reached his chest, although her massive coils of white-pink hair made up _some_ of the difference. With barely-contained energy, she rattled through the usual preamble and then launched into her first question, spinning for effect.

“Judai-san, it’s your first time on a big, big stage like this! You don’t get stage fright, do you? Hmmm~?”

“‘Stage fright’?” he repeated, his eyebrows raising as he considered it. “No way! I’m too pumped for this duel! Hey, Reporter-chan, this interview isn’t going to take long, is it?”

“W-Well…” She recovered quickly, bouncing in place. “W-Well, I’ll have you know that the dueling world has quite a lot of questions for _you_ , Judai-san. Like, for example, what made you want to enter this tournament anyways? You’ve mostly stayed out of the spotlight until now, so what’s changed?”

“Two questions at once, huh… Let’s see if I can handle this,” Judai teased, and Manjoume rolled his eyes. “It was Manjoume’s idea to enter in the first place, and I can’t take any credit for that. I mean, I wish I could…” A quick shrug, and then Judai added, “Nothing else changed, although…I might just be forgetting something, ha ha…”

“I see, I see. Many of our loyal viewers will remember how-”

The lights went out.

Well, not _all_ of them, but enough to leave the stadium in a sudden, thick dark, the red emergency signs splitting through it in sparse, scattered shapes. Alert, Judai had whipped around, Yubel’s energy crackling a warning in the air, and Manjoume had frozen, taking in what little he could see and hear. A staff member had leapt over a partition to give Sakura a message, their whispers fast, and the reporter had then scampered after him, leaving Manjoume and Judai alone again.

Huh.

Really, _really_ fucking strange, and, while the announcers speculated over the stunned crowd, Manjoume wracked his brain for an answer, and-

And then it was _there_ , crystalline. He grabbed Judai’s shoulder.

“They’re trying to upstage us.”

“…Who? Our opponents?”

Judai’s mic was on, which was a slight miscalculation, and the crowd had already begun to stir in a new way, thousands of cellphones held up high to cut through the dark. The effect was _eerily_ like a concert, as if he and Judai were supposed to dramatically break into a duet.

They weren’t.

Manjoume had his limits.

“Who _else_?” he shot back as he activated his duel disk, illuminated in white, yellow, and blue. “What cowards Waxling and Amboria are, hiding from us like this. If they make me wait much longer, I’m taking the wasted time as a personal insult, and Manjoume Thunder does not forgive easily.”

“So, this is how the professionals duel…” Judai observed, and then Yubel’s grin was over his, the energy that banded the stage thrumming. “I gotta say, I think I like it.”

“Enthusiastic as always, Yuki Judai.”

The steady drawl of that rich voice was matched with a bold spotlight, set on the Kaiser, Marufuji Ryo, as he stared down at them with the arrogance of a champion, his steel-like composure stunning, _stupefying_ to the point that, slack-jawed, Manjoume had _nothing_ to shout back. The words had dried up, like the inconsequential, feeble things that they were against someone of Ryo’s caliber. Those words were fragile moths in the path of a falcon.

Ryo took a step down, bringing him just centimeters closer, and Manjoume braced himself, hissing through his teeth.

Oh, _shit_.

Dark Scorpions and Neo-Spacians? Against the reborn _Kaiser_?!

In the new Cyber Art league, Ryo was a final boss for a good fucking reason, no losses recorded for him. In practice, even Sho couldn’t drop him below 3000 life points. In its current iteration, Ryo’s chimeric deck combined knights armored in skulls and bearing cleavers stained with gore, demons that sank into the stage with hollow stares and open maws, and, rising above all else, the pure, faultless silver of the Cyber Art, unstained by the lurching horrors that writhed below.

“The entrants list for this tournament must be out of date,” Judai answered, scratching his forehead, “since you weren’t on it, Kaiser. Then again, since you’ve come all this way, I’m sure Manjoume and I can work something out.”

When Ryo smirked, the crowd reacted, and their pressure surrounded the stage now, heavy while Ryo continued down the massive stairs that had risen unseen from the center of the stadium. A metal band held his hair back. In stripes of blue and gold, the dueling jacket shifted with every measured step, the accents in embossed metal. The confidence that fell from him was crushing, like the shadow of an outstretched weapon that would soon drive down.

“My fellow Duel Academia alumni, Wymora Waxling, approached me with an interesting offer,” Ryo stated, and, angling his head, he stopped for a moment, a professional deciding how best to dissect the targets below. “A chance against Manjoume Thunder and Yuki Judai, provided that I agreed to her condition of secrecy. Manjoume, you must have made a strong impression during your professional match against her.”

It had been _months_ ago, his Ojamas against Waxling’s rock-type monsters. Card effects had ricocheted off one another, and, after a lengthy chain had resolved itself, Manjoume had cleared her field and then sent a powered-up Ojama King in for the finish, her full life points sunk to zero after a single direct attack.

“Note to self -- Wymora Waxling is the type to come up with convoluted revenge plans that, evidently, involve secretly messing with a major tournament. I’ll remember that for all of our future encounters,” Manjoume snarled, his arms crossed, and Judai quickly shook his head. His wild bangs were thrown back.

“The Kaiser never turns down the chance to go up against a strong opponent, and that’s why…” Judai broke off, his grin widening even further. “Oh, _man_. Let’s get this started! I can’t take it!”

Miraculously, Manjoume did not throttle Judai during a live broadcast, but he did come dangerously close to ripping a cufflink off when he adjusted it, the jagged lines of his insignia set in gold. “Judai, how _exactly_ would that work? Since I’m _guessing_ the Kaiser wants a shot at both of us, the only option is a battle royale, which-”

Immediately Judai activated his duel disk. “Sounds good to me!”

“-doesn’t make _sense_ for a pair-duelist tournament.”

Undeterred, Judai shoved his deck into the slot and hefted the duel disk higher. “See, when you put it that way, the Kaiser’s gotta have another surprise waiting for us.” When Manjoume just stared at him, Judai rocked back on his heels and said, “You’re right about one thing, Detective Thunder. This is a tournament, and Waxling _probably_ had to do deal with Amboria’s empty spot too.”

“The organizers wouldn’t agree to a disruption of their own tournament.”

Judai nodded. “Which means that…?”

The stairs behind Ryo sank back into the floor, and, with one final step, he reached the stage, stopping in front of them. A barbed choker was over the high cut of his collar, the grain of the metal like the piercing grey-blue of his irises under the stage lights. The onyx-black cane was under one ringed hand, and its rhythmic clang had accompanied Ryo’s steps.  

“The Kaiser has a partner,” Manjoume declared, and he knew he was right, the crowd’s whispers rippling out.

And, sure, _maybe_ a small part of Manjoume was still reeling from the sight of Marufuji Ryo in full dueling regalia -- power and control behind even the subtlest movement, like the nod he gave Judai in greeting -- but his heart was slamming against his chest for a different reason. His hands were grabbing at nothing in short, fast motions.

Fuck. This was _good_. The challenge was here, Ryo’s potential worn so plainly, so visibly like hard-won medals, and taking-

They could do it, Manjoume thought. He and Judai could take out the Kaiser, a towering figure as the stage lights changed formation, casting his shadow long and wide.

The partner would be a tall peak, as Ryo, looming like a spire himself, would only stand next to a duelist who fought with a pure, devastating strength.

\---

“-in an unbelievable twist, we now have the Kaiser himself, a master of the Cyber Art, facing off against Team Thunder! W-What will happen next?!”

“Waxling and Amboria have issued a joint statement. It reads, ‘Have fun, Thunder. Let’s see if your gimmicky cards can deal with this.’ …Well, that’s…direct.”

“True, but that same unflinching attitude had led us _here_ , to this dramatic situation! Now, every member of the audience has the same question! Who will it be?! Who will stand with the Kaiser?!”

“He’s going to lose his voice before the duel even starts,” Manjoume muttered, his headset, like Judai and Ryo’s, muted while the announcers prattled on. He staggered when Judai suddenly threw an arm over his shoulder.

“Oi, Manjoume. Why didn’t we have a cool entrance like the Kaiser?”

“That’s…a good question. He even had a fog machine, and.... I didn’t get a fog machine! No one asked me if I wanted a fog machine!”

“Are…we the underdogs here?” Judai asked, laughing a little, and then he switched topics, addressing Ryo directly. “Maybe there’s already some trouble behind the scenes, since you’re here by yourself.”

“He wanted to make his own introduction,” Ryo replied. “That’s all I’ll say for now.”

Judai grinned. “Alright, that phrasing rules out Asuka. Guess we won’t have to deal with the combined forces of the Cyber Angels _and_ the Cyber Art.”

This time Manjoume did flinch, blurting out, “T-Tenjouin? _And_ the Kaiser?!”

“Terrifying, right?”

“That’s…one word for it,” he said, composing himself. “Although, Tenjouin is very committed to her studies. For her to appear in the first place would’ve been…extremely surprising, which is why I reacted that way to your ill-advised theory.”

“You’re looking kinda pale there, Thunder.”

“N-No, I’m _not_.”

“What’s your current win-loss record with Asuka again?”

“That’s…not important.”

Leaning close, Judai knocked their foreheads together, and Manjoume blinked up at him. “Hey, thanks for this.”

“For what?”

“Today. This experience.” A slight shrug, and Manjoume did _not_ squeak when Judai angled his face down, making it far, _far_ too easy to imagine closing that thin distance. A dizzying feeling. Another tilt of Judai’s head, his bangs falling away. “Whatever happens next has to be good. Are you ready for it?”

“Uh… Y-Yeah,” he said, swallowing hard when Judai moved back, his thumbs hooked through his belt loops and that infuriating smirk spreading on his face. Focus. _Focus_ , Thunder. “A-And, by the way, I’ve definitely won against her before.”

“Hmmm… Are you sure about that?”

From his earpiece, Misako cut off Manjoume’s extremely eloquent and composed reply. “The announcers are wrapping up. Get into position, Thunder. Ten seconds until your mic is on.”

Grumbling to himself, Manjoume spun on his heel and put another meter between himself and Judai, forming a triangle with himself, Judai, and Ryo at the vertices. With a well-practiced flick of his hand, he checked his hair and the angles of his jacket, taking another second to straighten his belt buckle -- his insignia, of course. If he hadn’t expected it, he would’ve missed the look Judai gave him, dark eyelashes lowering while orange-green stirred in his irises.

Click. The mic was on.

“Kaiser,” Manjoume began, directing his gaze onto the composed duelist across from him, and he immediately had Ryo’s attention. “I, Manjoume Thunder, accept you as an opponent, and the same goes for my dueling partner. Of course, I can’t make the same statement about your own partner, since that person seems to be…missing? Running scared? Honestly, I can’t blame him.”

“Those judgements are unnecessary. He’s here, and he’s ready for us.” Ryo stepped back, breaking their formation to stride towards the opposite end of the stage. His grin changed the steady roll of his voice. “I wonder how my own ambition will compare with his, although…” Ryo turned, his duel disk extended. “I do not expect to fall behind here. I want to experience a duel between champions, in all of its purity, and therefore the last move needs to be mine.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a partnership,” Judai called out, teasing. In the blink of an eye, those demonic wings, their membranes rough and vibrating when pulled taut, could have overlain him, twisting shadows clinging to their peaks and trailing down their dark scales. Yubel’s presence moved and gathered, sparking on the edge of Manjoume’s senses, and, really, it was horrible of Ryo’s partner to make all of them wait, especially when Judai looked like this, when Judai was _here_ like this. “Although, you would only talk that way about one duelist, Kaiser.” A low chuckle, and Judai looked up, eyes flashing. “Still, the two of you aren’t going to have an easy time, not when you’re against the team Manjoume Thunder has chosen himself.”

“Judai…” Manjoume steeled himself, daring another glance at Judai and his wild expression, that subtle fusion of his angles and Yubel’s. “Judai, who is it?”

The stage lights were not enough to smother the ruler’s gold. “Something tells me you already know the answer.”

And _then_ the lights went down again.

The crowd waited, just as the duelists themselves did: in the dark, craning their heads back. Where would it happen? How would it start?

“Ah, I get it,” Manjoume heard himself mutter, barely loud enough to carry.

Edo Phoenix’s official colour was a bright orange, and the spread of it was a declaration.

\---

The tournament organizers must really, really, _really_ have liked Edo, judging by how sleek and _expensive_ the intro video they played for him was, its elements echoed in the holoprojectors that flared to life with curled flakes of ash and burnt feathers, iridescent as they rained down from the domed ceiling.

Chains were split open, the clattering of their fractured links echoing over a crowd stunned into silence.

The bars of a cage were forced down. Solid Vision tracked their fall to the stage, every impact sending up smoke. But all this was the prelude, a violin straining in the background. Feathers coated the floor of the stage, overlapping.

With a loud, rattling screech, it began, a jet-black motorcycle revving and then shooting across the stage at a break-neck speed. Sliding the back wheel out, the driver made a hairpin turn, one arm thrown out for effect, and the momentum carried him through a wide arc, the pressure of the tires followed by animated streaks of fire-like orange. Even though Edo was a massive nerd, he also has a dramatic streak capable of rivaling Manjoume’s own.

The crucial difference was that the tournament had _actually_ agreed to Edo’s ridiculous demands. How could a _motorcycle_ be allowed but not a chariot? Why had the introduction gone on for so long?! Clearly there was a conspiracy against Team Thunder.

Obviously.

In white-yellow bursts, sparks rained down from above, transparent and passing through Judai’s outstretched hands, and Ryo watched the organized chaos just as they did, amusement on his elegant features. The announcer was in the middle of reading a goddamn poem about ashes and storms, or something. Edo had yet to remove the tinted helmet, fresh cheers erupting when he hit the breaks and threw one gloved hand up. Flames burst. Wire-thin feathers scattered.

Those cheers went even _higher_ after Edo dismounted and, unceremoniously, dropped his helmet to the ground, his cobalt-blue eyes locked on those at the center of the stage. Next was the first brush of Plasma’s presence, the embodiment of the Destiny Heroes.

At his side, Judai stepped forward, razor-sharp canines catching the scattered light.

“Hey, Kaiser, aren’t we a little out of place here? Might be dangerous, getting in the middle of a Pro League rivalry.”

Smirking, Ryo replied, “The Pro League is of no interest to me now. Only a misguided duelist would believe that true shows of strength are confined to its arenas. More than anything else, dueling is an art, and I’ve honed mine for a single purpose.”

“A duelist who takes pride in their actions would only be satisfied with an honourable victory, correct?”

“It seems you understand my position, Yuki Judai.”

“Of course I do,” Judai countered, leaning back. The audience’s rampant gaze hadn’t changed him, like it would most people. “We’re not really that different, when it comes down to it.”

That broke Manjoume’s concentration, and he grabbed Judai’s arm. “If you keep talking like _that_ , a hundred reporters will be digging through your personal history by the end of this duel, not to mention the Kaiser’s,” he quickly hissed, his headset flipped up.

Judai just blinked at him, Yubel’s cackles probably bouncing around the inside of his remarkably thick skull, and that’s when Edo stopped, taking the corner of their new formation with one hand on his hip and an arrogant smirk. As part of his new image, which had been _devastatingly_ effective according to Misako’s reports, Edo had let his hair grow out, just the back shaved down to a uniform length while the rest fell in loose, jagged sections that Manjoume’s professional eye knew had been styled to hell and back. ‘Dystopian businessman meets high-fashion biker’ must have been the prompt Edo’s team had decided on for his stage outfit, in grey and black with one asymmetrical cut of orange extending down from his high collar.

Distortions of Plasma blurred the holograms that ran over the stage.

Manjoume knew he had to start this, just for the chance of throwing off Edo’s concentration.

“So, the almighty Phoenix has descended from his perch. Us mortals should be honoured by that.” He sneered, the crowd already reacting. The cheers swelled. “Although, I’ve already taught you the steep price of such conceit, haven’t I?”

“Perhaps,” was Edo’s initial response, his smirk unchanging. The Destiny Heroes rattled inside that deck, Plasma stirring them into action. “However, I’m afraid you’ve made a serious mistake, Thunder.”

Gritting his teeth, Manjoume held Edo’s stare, condescending. Okay, _sure_ , they were friends, sort of, but that _still_ didn’t give Edo the right to be so damn _smug_. “You’re the one making a mistake in challenging me. Our rematch was supposed to be later this year, but if you’re just _dying_ for another defeat at my hands, then perhaps I can make an exception.”

“Ah, it’s painful listening to you sometimes,” Edo drawled, running a gloved hand over his face. When his eyes emerged again, they had hardened, and Plasma’s coils had thickened in the space between them, the power staggering, undeniable. “Thunder, you really are a fool if you think this is only about you. If another hero duelist wants to step into the spotlight, even for a moment, don’t I have a responsibility to ensure that my name isn’t being tarnished in the process? After all, hero monsters are my speciality, and I won’t stand for seeing them used carelessly.”

Edo’s phrasing was for the cameras.

Edo and Judai had a longer history than that, including those losses Edo had taken while still under a shadow of doubt, a type of darkness. Maybe this was a precursor to the _real_ rematch between them, complicated now by the web of legacies between all four of them, more and more tangled as the years passed.  

The buzz of the announcers continued, unheeded. It stalled when Manjoume raised his chin, and he glanced over to Judai first. A nod. An answering look flecked with gold.

“So, that’s your objective,” Manjoume said slowly, one eyebrow arched. If Edo wanted a match of who could be more condescending, then, sure, they could play: Student Phoenix versus Grandmaster Thunder. “Honestly, do you think you can just stroll into a tournament you’re not even registered for, have some big, _grand_ entrance the rest of us have to wait through, and then say that you’re going after my dueling partner? Let me emphasize that last part in case you missed it, okay? _My_ dueling partner. The partner of _me_ , Manjoume Thunder.”

Rolling his eyes, Edo remarked, “I take it you’re stalling for time with this little speech. Have I intimidated you _that_ much? All of this before one card has been played... Tsk, tsk.”

“I’m doing you a favour, Edo. I’m simply making sure that you’re prepared for this duel.” He paused for effect. He had the spotlight. “Sure, if you want to test Judai, go ahead. Be my _welcomed_ guest,” he spat, taking a step towards his target, the crowd’s attention growing stronger and stronger. It urged him on, as did knowing Judai was there, at his right. Waiting. Watching. “However, a move against him is a move against me, and if you thought that _last_ defeat was difficult to rise from, then I dare you to go after Judai with everything you have. I dare you to try it. You’ll have no mercy from me in return.”

“Manjoume…” Judai had to be looking at him. Anything else would have been unacceptable, and, with that, Manjoume pivoted. He signaled to his partner.

“Let’s get started. These trespassers need to learn their place, which is under my heel.”

“Well, I can help you with that,” Judai said, laughing as he lifted his duel disk higher. Yes, the hero had returned, again on a stage wreathed with lights, but it was unlikely, if not impossible, that every member of the audience understood who he really was.

But they _would_ \-- Manjoume Thunder would make sure of it, the deck he held one half of something more.

\---

Because of the pairs format, there was a near-intolerable amount of waiting involved before Manjoume could play his own cards and a lot of staring at the side of Judai's shaggy head, as if Manjoume could force himself to develop telepathy by sheer willpower alone.

It hadn't worked. Yet.

But after he made his first play -- a special summon that _immediately_ had Edo flipping a trap card to do some bullshit on his and Ryo's side of the field -- Manjoume realized two important things about playing Dark Scorpions.

One, the Dark Scorpions would forever be a pain in the ass. There was no denying it any longer or pretending that, okay, they _might_ grow on him over time. The Dark Scorpions were even more prone to making stupid poses than the Ojamas, twice as loud, and their human sizes meant that Manjoume spent an inordinate amount of time trying to squint around a leather-clad backside or swatting someone's mud-caked boots out of his face. While their card effects could be _interesting_ , disrupting an opponent's playstyle, the need to inflict battle damage posed a major problem, even with a proverbial arsenal of support cards and the mighty Neo-Spacians punching at everything that opposed them.

But the second point made all of that sacrifice worth it, totally worth it.

Two, the Dark Scorpions were a pain in the ass to _Edo_ , and even Ryo's stoic expression had started to crack, although he looked far closer to laughing than his teammate, that deep-set glare increasingly violent.

For a bunch of thieves, the Dark Scorpions had an alarmingly poor sense of danger, and therefore the ripples and swirls of Plasma -- waiting in the deck but still consuming the space around it like a hungry maw -- slid off them like nothing. Undeterred, Chick the Yellow continued his critique of Edo's stage outfit ("Like, these straps don't do anything.") while Maenae clicked glasses with Don Zaloog in agreement, the terms of their new drinking game established. One drink for every time Edo said 'Destiny' and two drinks if he said 'Come on!' while doing the, quote, "punching the sky pose." If Edo shouted 'Justice' at any point during the duel, any open bottle would have to be finished.

The Dark Scorpions would likely be dead or, at the very least, unconscious by the time the duel was over, but, from Manjoume’s perspective, it would be worth it. Totally, totally worth it.

Because this was a live broadcast, Edo had few options available, jerking his headset up and yelling at the band of drunkards a last resort. Instead, he did a very good job of standing in place and glaring, hard. With the headset, Misako repeatedly reminded Manjoume that, all things considered, he _probably_ shouldn’t cackle through the entire duel. In practice, that proved to be a serious challenge, especially when Edo’s pretty-boy face fell into a deep pout.

The question of whether Ryo could sense duel spirits besides his own Cyber Dragon was answered when he abruptly covered a cough at Don Zaloog's assertion that Edo's custom motorcycle was, quote, "not classy enough for the honour of being stolen by our band."

"Very mature," Edo had muttered tightly, which left the announcers audibly confused and with no choice but to speculate.

“I never claimed to be mature," Ryo said, and at Edo's raised eyebrow, he did laugh.

At first, Judai joined in, Manjoume rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of everything, but the sound abruptly cut off when Cyber End Dragon hit the field out of nowhere and then took half their life points.

Shit.

\---

Of course, the less life points he had, the more excited Yuki Judai became.

Manjoume had noticed that relationship back at Duel Academia, probably because he had often been the one standing across from a maniacally cackling Slifer Red and pondering the continued strangeness of his existence. Those encounters had _,_ with an annoyingly high frequency, ended with Judai pulling a fusion monster out of thin air and then bashing his opponent over the head with it. Repeatedly.

At least, that’s what it usually _felt_ like, in Manjoume's experience.

A catalyst for his dear rival's enjoyment was the appearance of a boss monster, a formidable creature capable of dealing massive damage and activating a nasty effect that had few, if _any_ , available counters.

If one such monstrosity had Judai bouncing in place and grabbing at Manjoume's arm, as if he couldn't _also_ see Cyber End Dragon in all of its towering, mechanical glory, then a _second_ monstrosity added an even greater urgency to his gestures and an even brighter sheen to his open eyes. When Plasma raised itself from a pool of congealed blood, Manjoume felt the floor give out from under him, his hand cards not enough to deal with the first attack. It would hit, unless-

Unless the _idiot_ grabbing at his arm had a fucking miracle somewhere between his index finger and his thumb.

He did, because starlight filled the stage as a phantom Neos appeared in defense position, its forearms braced against the strike of Plasma's massive claw. It cleaved down, splitting the blue below it and reaching into the white of strained muscle before the hologram scattered, a grey dust filling the space where Neos had stood. Not only had Judai transferred a copy of that pivotal monster from his deck to his graveyard, but the battle phase had also ended next from the trap card’s final effect. He winked at Manjoume.

“See? I got this.”

From those years of experience, Manjoume should have expected a save, one including the cheery thumbs-up Judai gave him next, but there had _never_ been a save like this -- the tens of thousands around them cheering at full force, letting that slight victory drag and drag. Flickering starlight faded, but the glow over Judai remained, ethereal.

Laughing, shaking his head as the sound just continued and continued, Manjoume took his marker again. Trembling, his fingers were threaded through his bangs because, fuck, that had been close, and the save would let this-

_Now_ this could continue, and, grin flashing, he turned to Judai, one hand outstretched. “Those fools thought they could finish us so easily. Judai, the next turn is mine. You’ll understand if I finish them off, won’t you?”

“Ah, are you really trying to end _this_?” Judai asked, the energy rising, spiraling out of control. “How about letting it go another round?”

“Not a chance.”

“Oi, he’s serious, in case you couldn’t tell,” Judai announced, and Edo shared a quick look with Ryo, both of their ace monsters coiled on the field, silver scales and blood-red armor like a wall. Victory lay beyond it, somewhere brimming with stronger lights than this, with an even greater high than this.

Just the glimpse of it wasn’t enough. The thought of it only drove his adrenaline on, the beat of his heart frantic, loud. If he won this _here_ , he would have to turn and cut off Judai’s cheers with an open-mouthed kiss, just to feel the fanged teeth press against his own spread lips, just to taste the sparks of this energy off of Judai. Fuck any judgement from the crowd. Fuck the Manjoume Group and their paid-for lackeys. Fuck whatever smart-ass comments Edo Phoenix would make about the public display for the next hundred-something industry parties.

Fuck _everything_ but the need for victory.

“Hey, Edo, end your pathetic turn,” Manjoume sneered, the rancorous laughter of the Dark Scorpions following. “If you hurry, I promise to wrap this up quickly.”

“Tell him, Thunder!”

“Woo!”

“Let us at him next! We’ll take out that oversized lobster!”

“We’ll get our time to shine, don’t you worry,” Don Zaloog declared, hitting glasses with Gorg, and Manjoume spared his cheering squad a glance. Maybe they had earned it, taking many, _many_ hits in the process.

“‘Pathetic’, huh?” Edo scoffed, but he dropped his glare next, shrugging as he said, “We’ll let time be the judge of that. I end my turn. Now, Thunder, please try not to disappoint me.”

“I’m going to knock you off this stage and into the pits of despair,” he declared, that smirk impossible to keep back. Judai’s was just as crazy, and he could picture the wings so _clearly_ \-- like the fall of a ruler’s cape, the darkness clinging to it obedient, writhing in silence.

Standing tall by Judai’s side, Manjoume drew, and the card was the right one.

When he struck, a bolt of lightning drove down.

In its flash of pure white, he saw a height greater than this, and a frenzy burned inside his blood, his smirk curling even higher.

\---

But Ryo struck back, and, reeling from the impact, Manjoume staggered to his feet, scorch marks spanning the stage, deep like trenches where the fire had driven all five Dark Scorpions from the field. Laughing here gave the twist away, but Manjoume did it anyways, his fingers curled over his open mouth before, fuck it, he threw his head back.

“So, you get your wish, Judai,” he said, and then he had to pause, laughing hard enough for his ribs to ache. Maybe this would never end. He might not even complain, not if this feeling stayed here -- bright, driving out everything but the present moment. “Show that counter trap you placed. Let’s take some of their life points as revenge for this delay.”

“Well, if you _insist_.”

Judai flipped the card. Edo and Ryo were driven below one-thousand, the crowd pulsing with new energy, as if they weren’t already screaming themselves hoarse.

“I suppose this is only fitting,” Manjoume added, his words cut by those high laughs, unceasing. “While it does follow a strand of lightning, the sound of thunder does not necessarily signal the end of a storm. If I’m not the one to finish this, then I’ll take on the role of a herald, announcing the torrent that will fall soon, _so_ soon.”

“Ah, I like that idea…” As the turned card vanished, Judai stepped back, and Manjoume’s eyes were on his chest, the pendant swaying over it. The urge to kiss him felt like a need, brimming hot below his skin. It turned scorching at the low drawl of Judai’s voice, but Judai’s stare was locked on their opponents, the gold blazing. “Edo, you and the Kaiser make for quite the team. Guess I should thank the two of you for this duel before I forget. That would be rude of me, won’t it?”

Sticking to his elite act, Edo scoffed and brushed his hair back. “Yuki Judai, are you really that confident in your victory? Your chosen teammate has failed to end things on his turn, despite his bold proclamations.”

“This is the _beginning_ of your end,” Manjoume said, sneering.

“Tsk, tsk… Aggressive words, especially considering that it’s still the Kaiser’s turn.” A slight pause, and then Edo glanced at his teammate, posed with his head tilted down, four hands spread in one hand. “What’s the delay? Don’t tell me you’re lagging behind.”

“Your concern is touching, Edo,” the Kaiser stated, and Edo’s eyebrows shot up, Plasma’s coils tightening. “I won’t misplace your trust in me. Understand that.”

“I-I’m not…” Snickering, the Dark Scorpions’ spirits had surrounded him again, and Edo paused to compose himself, adjusting his already-straight tie. “Fine. In the name of _destiny_ ,” he began, and the Dark Scorpions clacked glasses and downed their drinks, “our side will be victorious. Those who fight for _justice_ are always rewarded in the end.” After they exchanged frowns, the Dark Scorpions emptied their remaining bottle, since Edo had, naturally, found the flaw in the bandits’ plan. A clouded red bottle was uncorked next, Gorg begrudgingly filling the scratched glasses, and then Edo added, “Yes, _justice_ , the real driving force in this world.”

“M-Make him stop before- Mffft!”

Maenae had knocked Chick’s glass back for him, ignoring how he flailed and grabbed at her arm. “Rules are rules, coward.”

At the pathetic display, Manjoume had to shake his head, and from across the stage, Ryo’s stare had changed, embers surging into flames. A card hit the field, and, like that, the duel continued on, their fragile victory suspended over that pit of red fire, that bowl of scorched earth and ash.

\---

But the duel did not end with ash billowing in the air and smoke rising from a stage streaked with burn marks.

The duel ended on Judai’s turn. It ended under the dizzying void of Neo Space, the dark consuming the ceiling above them, engulfing the rafters.

\---

When Judai made his last draw, Manjoume own hands were empty and clutching at nothing.

Their life points were at 100, the opposing team's at 1600.

Their field was empty, but opposite, spreading the churning membranes of its wings wide, was Plasma, blotting out the blue-tinged lights from overheard, hovering in perfect stillness with its claws extended, dripping blood. It waited for them as a vulture would, patient in its superiority, streaked with viscera in red and black. Edo, dredging up sacrifices from his graveyard, had been quick to reform the monster after its first defeat, its effect disruptive, corrosive.

Beside it was Cyber End Dragon, its long necks dented and twisted. Each of the three maws was open, flickers of neon blue pulsing from between silver-edged fangs. Ryo had tried to end the duel on his turn, forcing Manjoume to empty his hand and throw precious cards away, a reverse of what he had already done to Edo. Judai's support had been there, steady like a hand on his back, pressed between his shoulder blades.

Judai.

Judai still had nightmares.

Something in his throat tightened, and Manjoume watched, in silence, as Judai flipped his drawn card and checked it, his bangs over his eyes. In Manjoume's ear, the announcers were wild with speculation, their reverberations booming from the loudspeakers and shaking the crowd, the chant forming Judai's name and repeating it again and again. Manjoume's banners were hefted high in support of someone else, the person he stood next to. The next feather that drifted down was from Winged Kuriboh, and the curl of its pale form passed over Judai, blurring the sudden rise of a familiar grin.

Judai still had nightmares.

That thought stayed with Manjoume, chipping away at his composure piece by piece. Slowly, Judai lowered the new card, examining the field opposing their own, and Manjoume _should_ have been doing the same, just to keep track of the effects that could trigger next, but-

"Judai."

A curious stare, Judai's head tilted to the side. His bangs fell out of place. "Hmm? Need something?"

The causal response didn't match the present moment at all. So typical for Judai.

"You might want to look around before you play that."

With Winged Kuriboh high on his shoulder, Judai stepped back, and the crowd had already responded, starting the next round of his full name. A sea of waiting lights. The drum of many hands, clapping in unison.

"So, you're telling me that it gets even better than this?"

"Yes. Not that I think you need the extra motivation, but…" The words slipped away, gone entirely when Judai glanced back at him over one shoulder, white feathers splayed over red fabric.

"Manjoume, we'll see it together.”

He nodded, and he had been ready to respond, even it would have clumsy and strange because of Judai's stare: honest and open, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It was easy to imagine sunlight casting its pale shapes on the crests of low waves.

Judai continued.

"You're always making exceptions for me, like all of this, like today. I mean, it's completely unfair," he said, and he stepped closer. He laughed, a low sound. "How's a guy like me supposed to keep up with you, Manjoume Thunder?”

"That modesty doesn't suit you."

"Hey, I'm being honest."

"No, you're being a…" The crackle of static in his headset stopped him, a reminder that Misako would _probably_ snap if he was too straightforward. Breathing in, he tried again, aware that Judai had stopped less than an arm's length away, the phantom outlines of Yubel's wings trailing down. "Nevermind. Just...don't let the turn pass to Edo again. You have your orders, so hurry up and end this here."

"I'll give it my best shot," Judai drawled, and then he played the drawn card.

Neo Space.

\---

Yes, Judai still had nightmares, and that thought ran through Manjoume's head over and over again, even as the field was blanketed with a thick dark, the colours pushing stronger and stronger against it. The Solid Vision whirled in streams of colour, the threads of this new reality coming in slowly, beautifully.

When Judai had first moved in, Manjoume hadn't noticed the nightmares, the wall between them enough to let him -- accustomed to airplane seats, transit announcements, and the chatter of staff members around him -- sleep through the attacks, infrequent but, as he understood now, intense.

Yubel's claws would round Judai’s shoulder blades, their whispers following the gestures. From the brittle, clipped words that Judai muttered -- most parts of apologies that were unnecessary and, at their worst, insulting -- Manjoume knew that the nightmares were usually memories, some distorted by new fears.

Even with tremors of fear running up and down his body, Judai would, somehow, still find the energy to tease Manjoume, saying things like, "Once word gets out about your sensitive side, I'll probably be busier than ever, trying to keep my competition in check. R-Right?"

A foolish scenario. A momentary distraction.

Unthinking, Manjoume would play along with it, but-

But for a long time, he had wanted to give Judai something more -- a dream-like sight, the vision of something new and perfect, so fucking _perfect_ that it couldn't be broken down. The contagion known as fear could not survive under these many lights.

Now, the crowd answered to Judai. As the depths of Neo Space closed overhead in a cocoon of darkness and light, they waited for the warrior to make his next move, to strike.

"My guys might need this attack boost," Judai said, shrugging after another look at his cards. Two left. "You've got some intimidating friends there, Kaiser."

"I won't deny that," was Ryo's answer, his narrowed eyes on the curls of those iridescent colours, pulsing with the echoes of a distant place. Behind the monsters were three cards face-down, two of them Ryo's.

"Judai, don't act like I'm not here," Edo interjected, the Dark Scorpions in a pile at his feet. A five-minute speech on truth and justice had been their downfall, Edo drawing out the pivotal words slowly and watching the chaos unfold.

That position suited the bandits better, considering that _all_ of them were lounging in Manjoume's graveyard. Their side of the field was empty of monsters. The lights of Neo Space slid over the emptied spaces.

"Ah, how could I forget another hero-user? You know, we haven't settled the real battle yet. The outcome might be a big shock..."

"Which is…?"

"The battle of which group is more impressive -- your Destiny Heroes or my Elemental Heroes."

A card hit Judai's duel disk, sparked with rainbow lights.

Miracle Contact.

\---

Earlier in the duel, Manjoume had played one copy of The Warrior Returning Alive, running his thumb over the faded text before letting the card activate. He had brought back Don Zaloog with it, the band's leader stretching his arms back with a boisterous laugh before taking his place, standing as if the legions of Destiny Heroes and chimeric beasts on the other side were just cut-outs.

That spell card had belonged to Judai, but it wasn't the one that described him best. Pillars of stars turned above them. Constellations shone bright.

Nebula Neos shot forward on wings of white and gold, chaotic energy crackling up its outstretched arm, and Plasma was the target, coiled in dark blood. Its effect had been negated. Its wings were raised as a shield.

Immediately Edo was shouting commands.

Judai countered, letting spell cards drop from his hand. The Kaiser pushed back, and Manjoume-

He saw victory, swinging closer like a pendulum, and he shouted for Judai. The crowd chanted for them somewhere beyond the starlight.

And-

\---

"And _what_?! What happened next?!"

Leaning back in his chair, Judai angled his glass, the ice collecting by the rim. "Hold on, my memory's a bit fuzzy. Hmm…." He made a show of tapping his chin, and Ojama Yellow exploded in a cloud of angry confetti, the red flakes coupled with skull symbols.

Unfortunately, for the sake of Manjoume's eardrums, the end result wasn't fatal, and the screeching continued in earnest.

"C-Come on!! Tell us!! Or...just tell me!! I have to know! I. Have. To. Know."

"Pleeeeease!"

"You gotta tell us!!"

While Judai was hounded by the Ojamas, who drooled even more than the average mutt, Manjoume signaled the circling waiter for more champagne, the after party on in full force. Conversations buzzed around them. A mixture of the late hour and his empty glasses had already clouded his head, but, fuck it, the champagne had already been paid for. His adrenaline had yet to die out.

"Why can't you remember?! The duel finished, like, two hours ago, right?" was what Ojama Red piped up with, his tiny arms crossed tightly.

"He's, uh, teasing us, probably…"

Despite how quiet it had been, Ojama Blue's comment did _not_ go unnoticed by his yelling compatriots. "Why's he doing that?! Oi," Ojama Black barked, shoving a stubby finger at Judai, making his eyes cross, "why're you messing with us?!"

"Dunno. Seemed like a good idea."

"I-It… 'Seemed like a good idea'?!" Ojama Yellow's voice had hit its maximum, and Manjoume contemplated changing tables, despite the ridiculously comfortable and majestically ornate chair he had claimed for his own. The slate grey even offset the jet black of his suit, the details in a delicate grey, close to white.

"Well, because you Ojamas like Manjoume, and Manjoume likes me, it follows that you have to like me," Judai explained, and the Ojamas exchanged horrified glances. "Therefore, I'm allowed to mess with you a little. Sorry about that."

"You're not sorry at all," Manjoume chided, his chin on his knuckles. "Also, that argument is garbage, even by your abysmal standards."

Interrupting had been a mistake, the Ojamas falling onto him in a tear-filled pile. "B-Boss, you're so wise! Please, please, help us! We're dying!"

"You can't die of curiosity," Manjoume snapped, "although I'd _like_ to see you try, Yellow."

"Waaah! B-Boss!"

"They're your ace monsters. Maybe you should do the honour yourself."

He wrinkled his nose at Judai. "I’ve decided that these pinheads deserve to suffer a little more.”

More crying happened, some snot involved, and when Manjoume's champagne arrived, he clacked it against Judai's soda.

Coming down from the high of the stage, Manjoume had leaned on Judai as they had navigated the backstage and its twisting hallways -- his heart beating fast in his chest, his breaths too shallow as, stupidly, he had laughed at every damn thing Judai had said. Nothing had broken the moment, so strong that it had driven out everything but that lingering high and the person against him, the person with the ripped jacket that he had tangled his hands in so easily. The kiss had been sweet, Judai's next breath soft across his skin.

After-parties were typical features of any professional tournament, even if the tournament itself was still ongoing. The higher brackets would be dealt with tomorrow, leading up to the championship duel, but the only subject circulating the high-end event hall was their duel. For anything else to overcome it was unlikely.

This was _their_ night, under a canopy of faded stars, the holograms subtle, faint. He took the praise that came to them, indulging in the open expression that would pass over Judai's face.

"-don't get it! Like, I've apologized a whole bunch!"

"Your crime," Manjoume drawled, crossing his arms, "is very serious, Yellow. You had the nerve to show up and _ask_ if Judai and I won. When I didn't immediately answer your pathetic question, _you_ took it upon yourself to cry and cry that I, Manjoume Thunder, had lost the duel. You were spreading baseless rumors, and that's unforgivable."

“S-So, like, you _did_ win…?”

The next voice was Judai’s, and he had thrown one arm over the back of his chair, the other dangling the glass close to the floor. “Maybe it’s been long enough. How about letting the truth out, my dear partner?”

Considering it, Manjoume stared at the chandelier over their long table, himself at one end in a ruler’s pose, careless with his gestures because he could afford to be that way. The rigid standards that others upheld were meaningless to him, Manjoume Thunder.

He could do whatever he wanted, and, while Ojama Yellow yelped at the sight of his ‘scary’ smirk, Manjoume gave his answer, twirling the glass idly. Apparently, all he wanted right now was to torture the Ojamas, a form of payback for the sheer _volume_ of their arrival. Party horns had been involved.

“These idiots can figure it out on their own. Plus, eavesdropping is one of the _few_ things they’re any good at.”

After wiping his nose with his briefs, Ojama Yellow, his voice thick from the tears, spun around and yelped at the other Ojamas. “H-Hear that?! The b-boss believes in us! H-How can we let him down now?!”

“You’ve become quite the master manipulator,” Judai observed after those five brief-wearing exhibitionists had scampered away, ready to terrorize anyone and everyone at the glittering spectacle of an afterparty. The dress code hadn’t stopped Judai from wearing the same tattered jacket and ripped jeans, another strip of duct tape keeping the heel of his right boot attached. “Yubel’s pretty impressed, although I’m more, ah, worried you’ll use those talents against me next.”

“The Ojamas were giving me a headache. Why wouldn’t I want them to go away?”

“They would’ve congratulated you.”

“Oh, _please_. Look, I’ve endured their moronic antics for _much_ longer than you have. Don’t lecture me on Ojama psychology.”

“I’m…not…trying to?”

“Good.”

A chuckle, and then Judai met his stare. “Just think of this way. Now we’ve got something to prove for the next duel. Plus, revenge plots can be exciting, right?”

At victories, the Ojamas cheered and cried those big, messy tears that made the falling confetti and streamers stick to their faces, contorted into even more hideous shapes from all the crying. At defeats, their behaviour varied. Sometimes, they floated in a big circle and frowned at him, their ‘constructive criticism’ not worthy of his attention. At the bolder, harsher defeats, their faces pinched with worry, and Ojama Yellow’s tears would be of a different kind.

But, at a result like _this_ , the Ojamas would’ve been stunned into silence, and that quiet could be even more annoying than their screeching or the kind of screeching they passed off as ‘singing’. With wide, gaping mouths, they would’ve flailed their arms and legs, probably smacking each other in their pathetic, pathetic confusion.

Twirling his glass again, Manjoume heard himself sigh, and he broke a thick patch of gel as he raked a hand through his hair, letting it fall back in jagged spikes. “Sure, whatever. Let’s just hope the Ojamas are annoying Edo with their stupid slack-jawed faces, although I-”

“Annoying who?”

_Fuck_. The clipped words from Edo, who had apparently _teleported_ behind him, led to a knee-meets-expensive-wooden-table incident, and Manjoume swore violently as a chair was dragged next to his own. He suddenly had the upmost, not-inconvenient-at-all pleasure of being in the presence of one half of the now-legendary Team Phoenix-Kaiser. Or Team Phoenix. Or Team Kaiser, depending on what group of fans you were addressing.

Maybe the result had pissed Edo off just as much.

No professional could be satisfied with a ‘draw’.

“So,” Judai began, humming to himself, “have you thought about a rematch? If we can track down the Kaiser, I’d be up for starting one right now.”

“Unfortunately, this tournament’s organizers would have a problem with that.”

At that very moment, those same organizers were probably yelling at each other in a nondescript boardroom, the hours ticking down to their self-imposed deadline. In its history, the Cornucopia Revolution Cup had never had a sanctioned duel end in a draw, which meant that, by default, the organizers had _never_ dealt with a situation like this -- the highlights of the duel were running on every station, the highs and lows agonized over by every analyst. The official rules, which seemed so inadequate now, stated that a points system would be used to determine the victorious team, but that assertion had been met with annoyance from every Duel Monsters fan with an active social media account, plus the combined forces of Manjoume, Edo, and the Kaiser’s respective agencies.

The simplest outcome was a rematch first thing in the morning, broadcast at an earlier timeslot than the rest of the tournament, but Manjoume knew that the organizers would resist putting it into action. From their perspective, such a rematch needed to be drawn out, forcing the fans to wait, to anticipate it with everything they had. Deftly, his manager had predicted a clumsy expansion of the remaining brackets, the organizers putting his team and Edo’s in different brackets, aiming for them to reunite in the finals or, at the very least, the semi-finals.

By the bar, Misako had taken the stool next to Emeralda’s, and his own manager frowned in concentration while Edo’s quickly drained a glass of something tall and obnoxiously colourful. Of all the scenarios she and the rest of Edo’s team had foreseen and planned for, this _probably_ hadn’t been on the list, and Manjoume, never one to avoid gloating, pointedly turned and clicked glasses with the duelist at his right, Edo’s eyebrows twitching.

“Sounds like you’re just scared to face our decks again.”

“You’ve confused me for someone else.”

“No way.” And then Manjoume changed the subject, waving his glass with one hand. “Although, I must admit, I was surprised the Kaiser teamed up with the likes of _you_ , since… Wait, did Sho, that bastard, know about this scheme?”

“Again, you’ve confused me for someone else,” Edo said icily, and he continued with a glance at Judai. “I’ve attended too many events with this guy, and the speeches about ‘the grace and glory of Manjoume Thunder’ will start soon if you don’t cut him off, Judai. I’d rather not take on that responsibility myself, if it can be avoided.”

“Oh, my knight in shining armor,” Manjoume drawled, acidic, and Judai snorted, the laughter spreading throughout the room from Yubel, their shadows parting. “But, all things considered, I hope you’re giving the Kaiser the respect he deserves. He went to extreme lengths for your sake, to protect the monster that you summoned to the field and foolishly left unprotected.”

_That_ got a reaction, Edo’s piercing gaze on him. “We shared life points. He only did what was necessary.”

“‘Necessary’? Are…you serious?”

“Well, tell me, how would _you_ describe it?”

“Out of the two of you, the Kaiser was by far the more heroic one,” Manjoume said, and Edo straightened, his expression suddenly guarded, as if Manjoume had just turned a camera on him. “Honestly, you should be ashamed, since you’re rambling about ‘justice’ and ‘sacrifice’ all the time…”

Judai’s knee knocked against his own. “Hey, that’s too far.”

Manjoume knocked him back. “No way. You should hear how he talks to me, his senior.”

“It’ll take more than some insults from Manjoume Thunder to wound my pride,” Edo stated, but his smile was defensive, not reaching his stare.

When Nebula Neos had attacked Plasma, Edo’s ace monster should have instantly crumbled, some clever plays from Judai negating its effect, countering the power that it leeched from others. But Ryo had fought hard to save it -- banishing cards from his deck and graveyard, calling again and again for the end of the battle phase, but Judai’s cards were perfect, keeping the attack in motion. Nebula Neos had drawn an armored fist back, the space around it spinning, wreathed in frenzied colours.

_“So, you’ve left me with no other options, nothing but this,”_ Ryo had stated, unflinching as the stadium had boomed around him, Plasma on the edge of destruction. There had been one trap card left, set by Ryo at the end of the previous turn.

It had split the battle damage and prevented the destruction of one monster, the rest of the effect irrelevant, and the majesty of Neo Space had peeled away to reveal a crowd, shocked.

“Although, the Kaiser’s deck was different from the beginning,” Manjoume heard himself say as he tapped his fingers against the glass. “More support cards. More counter traps, and…”

“Come on. Get to the point,” Edo said with a sneer. “Clearly, you’re implying that I lagged behind Ryo during the duel, even though that’s far from the truth.”

“No, I just…” Trailing off, Manjoume frowned at his glass, the bubbles collecting. The facts slid together slowly, the image they formed simple. “Are you two practice partners or something?”

“…Excuse me?”

“He knew your deck well, which makes sense for an event like this, but…” No, it had to be more than that. There had been a vibration, a resonance, between the spirits Ryo and Edo had collected, too subtle for Manjoume to notice at first. It had thrummed beneath the chaotic sparks of the duel, structuring every move Ryo made, leading into those of Edo himself. Plasma’s coils had not stained the shadows and scales of Cyber End. “The Kaiser, he wouldn’t have asked you to join him unless he acknowledged you as a true duelist. It…would’ve been the same for you, naturally.”

“Hmmm. Sounds about right,” Judai added. “I think a professional duel analyst would call it a ‘mutually beneficial arrangement.’”

“Why did I come over here?” Edo rasped, his glare on Judai, and Manjoume had the distinct feeling that, hey, he was missing something important, another line that would finish his diagram of whatever the _fuck_ was really going on.

Elbows on the table, Judai angled his head, a curious, bird-like gesture that Manjoume normally saw move Yubel. Roughly a year ago, Edo had taken five straight losses against Judai.

If anything, hero-users probably bonded over their shared traits, such as a penchant for getting into late-night fights with dangerous, _armed_ strangers and taking an inordinate amount of joy in annoying the one and only Manjoume Thunder.

So, naturally, when Judai sighed and said, “You really should tell the Kaiser,” Manjoume let out a string of curses and then grabbed his arm with a death grip, the vigorous shaking and cursing next.

Suffer, Yuki Judai.

“Tell the Kaiser _what_?! What could _possibly_ be more important than our dueling or… Hey, why aren’t we talking about _me_?! I’m the only one who put out a risky deck today, and you could compliment my bravery and style _far_ more than you’ve-”

“A-Aren’t you the one who brought up the Kaiser?” Judai said, which was right. Unfortunately.

Manjoume let go.

“Whatever. Keep your secrets. It’s not like I need your assistance to figure this out, because _there_ is something going on here.”

Edo’s laugh came out like a bark. “Oh? If Detective Thunder is making his grand appearance, then you’ve definitely had too much to drink.”

“Shut it, pretty boy.”

“Huh, at least you’re right about one thing,” Edo said, tossing back his head. His purposefully-disheveled hair fell back into the same style. “Well, feel free to share your ‘deductions,’ my dear detective.”

For dramatic effect, Manjoume paused, swirling what little was left in his champagne flute. “Fine, since you asked so nicely.” Of course, the only problem was that he hadn’t thought of anything in advance, but what was Manjoume Thunder if not a quick thinker? Picturing the Kaiser, in all of his commanding glory, angular under the searing stage lights, he latched onto his first observation. It might work.

It was _probably_ correct.

“The dynamic between the two of you stems from the Kaiser’s role as an older brother. Sadly, his sibling is one of the most unfortunate human beings I have ever had the misery of encountering, but that doesn’t contradict my first point. Therefore,” Manjoume stated, even though Edo’s eyes had started to widen in horror while Judai, dignified as always, choked on his soda, bubbles going _everywhere_ , “the Kaiser has been treating you as he would a younger sibling, attempting to guide you away from your own personal failings, which, I might add, are _numerous_. Still, you’d make for a less-disappointing sibling than Marufuji Sho, so you’d eventually accept this role and-”

“S-S-S-Stop! P-Please, stop it!” Judai was pleading, face-down on the table. The rancorous laughter was his own, Yubel being caught in what could only be described as a ‘giggle fit’.

Edo’s head was in his hands. “Thunder, you’ve really outdone yourself.”

“…What? _How_?”

Sighing, Edo trailed off. Next, he flicked a coaster, and it bounced off a vase, overflowing with white roses. “Coming over here was a mistake.”

“Edo, you really should tell the Kaiser,” Judai repeated, and something about his voice made Manjoume freeze, the words serious. No green, orange, or gold showed through. Yubel’s fangs were gone.

This was only Judai, and sometimes he really did know best. He saw through the barriers that others saw as solid, unmovable.

Stubborn as always, Edo began with, “You’re dating Manjoume of all people, so why would I take _your_ advice?”

“Hey, you don’t have to do anything. Your choices are your own.”

“Obviously.”

“His answer might surprise you.”

A pause, short enough for Edo to draw in a heavy breath, annoyance stark on his handsome features. “Please, remind me why I’m even talking about this in the first place. Is this some advanced tactic to distract me during our next duel? I’d thought higher of you than that, Judai.”

“Ah, that’s not my style. Plus, Manjoume is the master manipulator in our relationship, right?”

Manjoume ignored that. He finally understood. “Edo, do you have Tenjouin-san’s number? When it comes to matters of the heart, he-”

“Tell me, this person wouldn’t happen to be extremely close friends with the same person I’d have to talk about, would he? Do you really take me for _that_ much of a fool?”

Sitting with one leg crossed over the other, Edo had composed himself back into that familiar image of a lauded professional, every statement he gave the press immaculate, the inflection of every word purposeful. He had obtained so many victories in the arena with that same deceptive ease, winning over the crowd with every loose gesture.

But Edo had more sides to him than that. There was the dork who _still_ followed those live-action superhero shows, always changing his profile icon to match the latest season and, as Manjoume highly suspected from the random status updates Edo’s ultra-secret personal account would put out, probably getting into heated arguments on fan forums with strangers who had no idea that ‘JUSTICExHERO’ had won every major dueling tournament at least twice. There was also the hot-headed moron who was quick to throw the first punch in the name of ‘justice’, which had repeatedly left Edo with cut-up knuckles and bruises that needed to be buried by concealer. Oh, and that fucking maze of a scar on his stomach.

Having Edo bleed all over him had been a life experience, if nothing else.

According to Emeralda, Edo had swapped those late-night adventures with knife-wielding syndicate lords and suture kits for lengthy sessions with personal trainers and boxing gloves.

No translucent chains dragged from his wrists now, and Manjoume knew he had stayed silent for too long, caught up in the simple fact that, damn it, he _did_ like Edo, even if admitting that out of loud would only earn him a condescending look and an equally sarcastic comment.

Hero-users could be so fucking difficult.

“Just… Okay, listen. Believe it or not,” Manjoume began, pinching the space between his eyebrows, “I’m willing to sit here and listen to you talk about it, if that’s what you want. It’s obvious by now that I can’t read your mind, otherwise I would’ve known about your ‘Stopped Time’ complex way before our exhibition duel. I should’ve suspected _something_ when you challenged me like that, but… What can I say? You’re quite the actor.”

First, condescending look.

Next, sarcastic comment.

“Well, thank you for the compliment. I only wish that it had come from someone with a better range.” But all of that was a cover for what Edo was really doing. Weighing the positives against the negatives. Isolating his next words, the ones that actually mattered. "You already know that I've stayed in contact with Ryo. After he returned from the other dimension, he still had a sense of ambition, and it might have even taken him back to the Pro League. Part of being a professional is understanding how the dueling scene changes over time, and I wanted to make it challenging, if not impossible, for him to catch me off guard with a refined Cyber Art."

"Yeah, makes sense to me," Judai said, his hands clasped behind his head. "But rivalries can be difficult, can't they?"

"'Unpredictable' is a better term for it," Edo stated, and he didn't have to explain any further. From that tone alone, clipped and distant, he could only be talking about Ryo's condition.

It shouldn't have come back, but those old reassurances had been proven wrong. Much of the damage had been revealed only in agonizing pieces, like a winter's snow melting to reveal the bones hidden underneath.

"Well, today the Kaiser said he doesn't have a use for the Pro League, so does that mean you're going to drop him?"

At Judai's comment, Manjoume turned around and stared at him. Edo laughed.

“Hmmm… Perhaps. I could even take a page out of your playbook and run off for a year or so. I would forget to answer phone calls, make my closest rivals wonder where I am…”

 “Ah, so you did worry about me,” Judai said, and Edo rolled his eyes, a trace of a smile showing through.

\---

From there, it was easier to give in to the haze of the night, diamonds refracting like starlight, raised glasses sparking from across the massive, curving rooms of this tower’s top-floor hall, the rich textures and colours gliding into one another. Sometimes, Manjoume would reach back and tangle his fingers in the rough fabric of Judai’s jacket, dragging Judai with him through the gleaming crowds, and the cheers would fall so perfectly then. Grand duelists were eager to ask them questions, and, if Judai gave him a shy grin, small but heart-stopping all the same, then Manjoume would answer instead. He would answer with the ease and confidence of a victor because, fuck it, he felt like one, something electric still buzzing under his skin.

Eventually, the Ojamas returned as a huddled mess, crying about nothing for about five minutes and then, like a swarm of misshapen flies, buzzing around his head, Yellow pleading the loudest that Manjoume should, quote, ‘Please, please, please! Play us next time!’. The fact that Manjoume was drinking the almost-victory champagne like it was victory champagne made the effect even worse, his eyes crossing from the smears of hyper-bright colours, and he did catch Edo -- leaning against a column with his phone by his ear -- giving him one of those nice-to-see-you-suffering looks through the narrow gaps between various Ojama body parts and poorly stitched briefs. The horror show ended when Winged Kuriboh abruptly dive-bombed the group and made four-fifths of it pass out from the shock, Ojama Yellow summoning a fainting couch (somehow) and swooning with a delicate fan over his bulbous forehead.

Ojama Blue stayed in Manjoume’s pocket, his tiny arms dangling over the dark fabric.

“Uhh… N-Not to wreck the party or anything, but I should, um, go tell Bell about the big duel, since she was asking about it all morning…”

“Don’t keep her waiting then,” Manjoume said, lowering his glass. At his left, Judai was laughing along to a joke from a famous announcer, whose notoriously icy demeanour had not stopped him from being charmed by Judai in seconds. Obviously.

“B-Boss?”

Manjoume angled his head, taking in the way Ojama Blue twisted his pinky fingers together. “What is it?”

“Um, do you w-want me to pass on a message to Bell?”

The wooden shelves of Bell’s house had started to fill with small treasures -- leaves tucked between sheets of wax paper, pebbles dashed with bright colours, and dropped feathers that were bound together with a length of red string. Loose scarves and blankets filled the gap of what was supposed to be the fireplace, Bell’s quilt on the very top. Dried flowers would be on every surface.

“Tell her that we’ll win next time. Her faith in us will be rewarded.”

“Uh… Okay, ‘next time’, ‘faith in us’…” Abruptly, Ojama Blue straightened. “G-Got it, Boss! See you later!”

A small pop of confetti later, and Manjoume’s pocket was empty again.

The Ojamas were honest little creatures, and, at that thought, Manjoume smiled to himself, tracing the stem of the glass.

Most duelists weren’t lucky enough to have five ace monsters.

“-and… I hope you don’t zone out like this during our rematch, Jun-chan.”

“ _Fuck_ , not you too,” Manjoume grumbled, and he downed his glass at Edo’s triumphant smirk. “Note to self. Avoid leaving Edo Phoenix in close proximity with Yuki Judai and that schemer Yubel. Absolutely nothing good can come from it.”

“Wait, _Judai_ calls you that?” Laughing, Edo shook his head. “How cute. You must be-”

“Shut up.”

Edo did not shut up. “Well, Pegasus just called to congratulate me on tonight’s duel. Apparently there’s now an even greater demand for reprints of my heroes, so you could say he’s impressed. He also extends his greetings to ‘little Jun-chan’, but, if I’m honest, it sounds like he was more intrigued by your partner’s performance.”

Presently, his lovely ‘partner’ was in the process of charming yet-another legend of the dueling world, this time making Gator Face, a fixture in the top ten, let out a loud cackle and show off those filed-down teeth. Great. Fantastic.

Was Judai a wizard or something?

“-and… See, it’s behaviour like this that stops you from getting the top sponsors. At least act like you’re interested in what I’m about to say. Doesn’t your agency offer media coaching?”

“Did you really come over here just to brag whatever nonsense Pegasus J. Crawford said?”

“Not exactly,” Edo replied, absently straightening his jacket. Perfectly tailored, of course. “Earlier tonight, you stated that Ryo’s style of dueling was more heroic than mine. While I don’t plan on weighing your opinion so heavily in the future, we _do_ have a rematch of our own approaching. Naturally, your perception of me will change how that duel begins.”

A rhetorical question. Manjoume ignored it, and he let Edo lead him towards the curved wall, the expanse covered with glittering tiles. By a counter overflowing with green-stemmed flowers, Judai stood surrounded by a group of starry-eyed admirers, his expression focused as he explained _something_ to a chorus of cheers.

“Fine, I’ll admit it. I really wanted to win this,” Edo said, which earned him a raised eyebrow from Manjoume. “However, it was Ryo who made the critical saves on my side of the field. He even took more of your life points than I did. Honestly, I…” A cautious look, sparked by the chandelier above them. “I didn’t expect that side of him to be so strong.”

“A duel reveals the connections between those involved. Some would say that everyone bears their souls, whether they realize it or not.”

“True. That makes me the impulsive one today.”

“Probably, but our rematch gives you a chance to show a different side of yourself, an even stronger one ideally. Of course, to make a good impression, you’d have to be just as formidable and composed as the Kaiser himself. You can’t let him get the last card again.”

Across the room, Winged Kuriboh finished a figure-eight by the windows, the city outside awash with fireworks in red and blue. Next were the orange and turquoise. “You’re…surprisingly insightful when you’re not yelling about Ojamas.”

“Thanks.”

“Also, about you and Judai…”

Suspicious, Manjoume narrowed his eyes. “What about me and Judai?”

Edo’s pause had to be purposeful. If Plasma had the unfortunate personality of Yubel, then dark cackles would’ve been bouncing around the room. “Well… I’ll just say that you’re punching above your weight class, Manjoume.”

“…Huh?”

With a sigh, Edo stepped forward and patted his shoulder. “Take care of him, alright? Sometimes his cool act really is just an act.”

Manjoume scoffed. “Yeah, obviously, but I can tell you that right now that slacker is _absolutely_ enjoying himself, one-hundred-percent.” To prove his point, Judai picked that moment to get all giddy and smiley about the deck Gator Face had passed him, even bouncing on his heels, a movement which had no fucking right to be that adorable.

Urgh.

\---

As much as Manjoume Jun had enjoyed standing directly next to Yuki Judai and listening to his exceedingly random statements about the over-decorated appetizers that the waiters were distributing on their gleaming platters, it was also _very_ entertaining to lounge next to an increasingly talkative Edo Phoenix and watch _others_ make confused faces at Yuki Judai’s random statements about those same over-decorated appetizers.

Also, Manjoume might be drunk.

Maybe.

“What kind of nickname is ‘Gator Face’ anyways?”

“It’s because of the teeth,” Edo said, and Manjoume snorted.

“Duh, but he doesn’t even look like an alligator. I mean, we’ve both spent _more_ than enough time around the never-ending eating machine known as ‘Shirley’ to confirm _that_.”

“Shirley is a crocodile, not an alligator.”

“Same fucking thing.”

“Try telling Jim that.”

If nothing else, Judai would have an interesting story to tell them later. Namely, he’d have to reveal what collection of words had made the aforementioned Gator Face -- two meters tall and with enough sharp edges and spikes to outclass Yubel -- drop a delicate piece of skewered meat and burst into horrified laughter. Although, sometime between the next flurry of fireworks and Edo’s next off-colour comment about an industry insider, starbursts of light catching on the rim of his wide glass, Manjoume’s thoughts slid back to where they had been an hour ago, back to when he had first heard of Edo’s true feelings for the Kaiser.

Huh.

Steadying himself against the wall, Edo at his side with his hands shoved coolly in his pockets and his own half-full glass on the nearest table, Manjoume tried to shove all those unruly words together and make some sophisticated, insightful statement about rival-relationships.

But, then again, the situation was _pretty_ hilarious, and, snickering against his glass, he decided to be bold instead.

“You must’ve had a great time in that other dimension. Well, minus the part where you died.”

“…Excuse me?”

“So, how exactly did it happen? The two of you found an abandoned house and just, what, _decided_ to have a master-servant roleplay session?”

Manjoume had the rare privilege of seeing Edo’s brain crash and then stall, like a broken console now stuck on the loading screen, its inner components whirling over and over again. And, because Manjoume Thunder was going to enjoy every fucking second of this party, he heard himself break into high-pitched laughter, and that seemed to fix the problem, Edo’s new expression set to ‘haughty dislike’.

“Who told you about that?”

“S-Sho,” Manjoume managed to gasp, and he wiped away a tear with one hand. Edo’s frown intensified. “Well, Sho heard about it from his beloved older brother. They had been, ha, w-watching some old movie, and the butler character reminded him of you with the whole, you know, ‘The master will see you now’ routine.” Stunned, Manjoume stopped, and then he was struggling to stay on his feet, cackling into his palm. “O-Oh. Oh my _god_. You c-called him ‘master’, didn’t you?”

“I’m currently imagining you in a chokehold,” Edo said, deadpan, “but you’re getting closer and closer to experiencing the real thing.”

“Pfft… As if,” Manjoume mumbled, but he _did_ make a concerted effort to stop the noise. “Still, I agree with Judai. You should tell the Kaiser, even if it’s only for your sake in the end.”

“Look, it’s…” Edo pushed off the wall and took his drink again, the ice clacking against the rim when he tilted it back. An amber liquid. “Relatively speaking, it’s not a big deal. It’s certainly nothing I need you _or_ Judai thinking about.”

“Huh. Well, that’s convenient, since the Kaiser is about to grace us with his presence.”

When Manjoume lifted his chin, Edo turned around, and, sure, there he was -- Marufuji Ryo, the picture of sophistication in a navy suit, his loose hair falling in jagged shapes. He parted the crowd easily, and when he stopped in front of them, tracing the top of his cane with one hand, he said something extremely confusing.

“I’m not here.”

Manjoume’s right eye twitched. “Excuse me?”

“Just remember what I said,” Ryo added, and Manjoume decided that, well, if neither Edo or Judai were going to cut him off, then he would have to do it himself. Lurching forward, he put the glass on the nearest surface. Success. Face-planting would have led to unflattering photos of himself.

Next, he had to solve the mystery of why Marufuji Ryo was giving out riddles, like a well-dressed sphinx who could also, probably, kick his ass, duel or no duel.

“Your eye keeps doing that…thing,” Edo said, and Manjoume ignored him, preparing to-

But the mystery very quickly solved itself. Manjoume’s phone went off, and the message was from Sho. Next was an incoming call.

The underlying medical reason for Ryo’s balance issues had something to do with his damaged heart, circulatory system, list of ongoing medications, or a combination of all three -- Sho’s explanations could be very dense, and Manjoume rarely, if _ever_ , wanted to stay on that topic. Sho had also, multiple times, vented to him about how Ryo would push his rehabilitation to the limit, that stubborn streak of his burned in deep, to the very core. Just like Judai’s. Or Edo’s.

Or Sho’s, even if he vehemently denied it.

Therefore, grand detective Manjoume Thunder was left with a very simple task.

“Let me guess. Sho had no idea about your entrance, complete with descending a suspended staircase with no railings in front of millions of avid viewers. Oh, and broadcast in real time, with no delays.”

“You really are close with my brother,” Ryo said smoothly, a flicker of amusement passing over his features. “You’re even starting to sound like him.”

“That’s…not a compliment,” Manjoume muttered, slightly deflated, and he quickly glanced at Edo: smug and composed again. Great. Two against one. “Urgh, whatever. You two are _perfect_ for each other.”

“Watch it,” Edo warned, and Ryo had glanced away at the people around them. Formal, in crisp-lined suits and elegant gowns. Misako was probably still at the bar, gleaming in blue and silver. A miniature Cyber Dragon was pinned to Ryo’s collar.

“The decision has been made,” Ryo said, and that explained the new buzz to the room. Whispers were passed between its scattered groups. “The organizers have decided to expand the brackets for the tournament, and our teams have been placed in brackets one and sixteen.”

 “Ah, our rematch is delayed. What a shame.”

Manjoume scoffed at Edo’s comment, delivered as if Edo didn’t feel the same impatience he did. “This tournament is such a joke, changing its own structure overnight. Of course, it’s to accommodate my glorious team, so I can’t complain too much.”

“Thank god for that. Your rants give me a headache,” Edo mumbled, and Manjoume would have gladly stormed away for dramatic effect, but even pushing off the wall was enough to make everything _tilt_ sharply. Posing coolly was fine, he decided. He could deal with Edo being Edo.

Maybe.

He deserved a goddamn medal if he pulled it off. And three statues, minimum, cast in his image.

\---

By the time Judai sauntered over to their group and threw an arm around Manjoume's shoulders, which startled him enough to spill the full glass that had somehow _teleported_ into his hand, Manjoume had confirmed one important thing about Ryo.

Ryo took pair dueling very seriously.

It shouldn’t have been surprising -- there were few things, if _any_ , related to dueling that the Kaiser did not give the full force of his attention to. But, like Edo, Manjoume hadn’t expected Ryo’s intrinsic style to change, shifting to a more supportive position with the gleaming coils of Cyber End Dragon as the only show of raw power.

“It seems that parts of my history haven’t reached you yet,” Ryo observed, taking a suitably regal armchair, a wingback with gleaming studs. “Many establishments outside the Pro League host pairs tournaments, and the low entry requirements make them unpredictable. The structured decks favoured by the Pro League are traded in for innovation in all of its volatility.”  

Manjoume took express enjoyment in Edo’s confusion, visible for a split second before he clamped down on it, straightening his already-straight tie. Sure, Manjoume was also confused, but that was besides the point.

“Well, I never thought the Kaiser himself would lead a double life,” Edo stated, crossing his arms. “Your official dueling record only lists individual duels. Tell me, were the results so poor that you decided to keep them a secret?”

A grin from Ryo, terrifying when on the opposite end of a dueling arena but different in this setting, dimly light and dragging all of them into the early hours of the morning. “Secrecy is part of the act. We both wore masks with our costumes. I’m ashamed to say that I went along with my partner’s suggestions quite easily.”

As someone whose early career had included far too many run-down bars, illegal casinos and games parlours, and nightclubs with grim-matted tables and floors, Manjoume knew _exactly_ what tournaments Ryo was talking about. The prizes were low, of course, but they still drew in loud, eager crowds. It was an unspoken rule to try and win over that audience -- the stage names ridiculous, the costumes eccentric. Trash talk was a weapon like any card, and a successful hit was met with jeers and laughs, those in the crowd quick to name their own victors.

But, a partner? Their identity stumped Manjoume at first, and he mulled it over while he watched Judai frown at a dessert platter, Judai’s makeshift congregation in the middle of an animated discussion, probably card-related.

Fubuki traveled for work. One of his main hubs was in the same city as Ryo’s cardiologist.

“You and my mentor were…a pairs act?”

“‘Are’, technically. There was never a formal end to our arrangement,” Ryo answered, and Edo’s eyebrows were at his hairline.

“Hold on. You let _that_ guy dress you?”

Ryo paused. He blinked very slowly. “When Fubuki has a vision, he becomes determined to see it realized.”

And that was all the information they were going to get, visions of over-the-top military uniforms and beaked masquerade masks overlapping in saturated colours. “Oh man, what situation have I gotten myself into?” Edo muttered, flipping his hair again. “Didn’t you learn the first time _not_ to get involved with illicit dueling rings? What if the sponsors for the Cyber Art League found out? Honestly, you’re so careless…”

“Says the person who used to jump around on rooftops while wearing a fucking cape,” Manjoume mumbled, and Edo just ignored him, even though he was right.

Hypocrite.

“Your reputation reflects on mine, since we’ve partnered for the sake of winning this tournament. I know what effects my own actions can have. I only hope you’ve been just as cautious,” Edo said, which, in Manjoume’s humble opinion, was a very long-winded way of saying absolutely nothing. It was also an example of why Edo was so damn good at talking to the press and taking up other people’s airtime.

“You’re drawing the wrong conclusion,” Ryo replied, a low grin turning. “There has never been anything ‘illicit’ about the duels of the Twin Dragon Generals.”

“The duels of the…” Breaking off, Edo turned to Manjoume as if to confirm, yes, _that_ really was their team name. Fubuki had always favoured the grand and the poetic. The costumes had likely featured threaded epaulets and swirls of embroidery, historical details elevated by romantic flair.

For someone who answered to ‘The Immortal Phoenix’, Edo could be unreasonably judgemental of how others chose to express themselves.

“Well, Ryo, I would normally ask for video evidence that any of this happened, but I fear such a thing would only lower my opinion of you.”

No one could say Manjoume Thunder did not have courage, even if it led him, at this particular moment, to snort and then say to Edo, “A servant should use a more formal tone when addressing his master.”

One of the rare positives of being an Ojama duelist was the built-in cheering squad, the three Ojama brothers ready with their claps and taunts. But no amount of confetti and party streamers could blot out the death glare currently directed at Manjoume’s face. His high-pitched laughter was probably a contributing factor.

Probably.

“I wonder if our old trap could be refitted for a different use,” Ryo drawled, and when Edo’s head whipped around, Manjoume’s next laugh caught and then broke into tiny, tiny giggles. “The master-servant act seems to be very distracting. Earlier today, Manjoume sent his band of thieves to our side of the field, and it’s only fair that we repay his team for the disruption.”

“I would rather use a more direct method of revenge against Team Thunder,” Edo declared, his upper lip curling slightly.

“Stop acting like I’m not your side,” Manjoume said, and Ryo had to be giving him a strange look. Edo just rolled his eyes. “The same probably goes for that loud-mouth Judai as well, if he ever comes _back_.” Manjoume took a drink. Why did he have a new drink? Whatever. “I swear, if he falls into another dimensions or gets brainwashed by some egomaniacal tyrant, _I’m_ not dealing with it.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. I was looking forward to the heroic rescue,” Judai said as he threw an arm over Manjoume’s shoulders, and a very expensive tie was quickly ruined.

\---

“-and… He knows he has to duel tomorrow, right?”

“Hey, don’t underestimate my partner,” Judai chided, and Manjoume blinked rapidly, hopefully creating the illusion that he was more than half awake. Judai’s arm was pressed against his. When Judai met his eyes, he tangled their fingers together, which shouldn’t have made Manjoume blush but, fuck it, it was late. It was late and Judai had stars in his eyes, stars because this had been a marvel of a day, of a night.

Victory was on the horizon, and beyond that, there had to be something even greater, a new summit to be taken.

“Urgh. It’s a shame you can’t just fly me back to the hotel. Getting a car is always such a pain,” Manjoume heard himself mutter, and the fact that Edo immediately responded was a reminder that, oh yeah, they were still hanging out, Ryo’s right eyebrow arching a little higher.

Hopefully they both already knew that Judai could fly.

“Since when could you _fly_?”

“Oh, awhile now,” was all Judai said at first, shrugging and pressing closer to Manjoume, his head almost on Manjoume’s shoulder. The dark strands of his hair were streaked with red from the low lighting. Sharp-edged shadows from the longest pieces dragged along his jawline. “It’s pretty cool. Shame we’re in a big city, otherwise I’d show you some of me and Yubel’s moves.”

“It…is pretty cool,” Edo admitted, and then he sighed, flashing them a tired but honest smile. “Well, my partner and I,” he added next, Ryo tilting his head at the formal address, “need to discuss our strategy for tomorrow, so I must bid the two of you farewell, for the time being.”

Before rising from the ornate chair, Ryo steadied his grasp on the cane. His unbound hair slipped over his shoulder, and his smile was close to Edo’s own. “It seems that I’m leaving as well. Judai, Manjoume. The path to the finals will be filled with many challenges. Take them on with your honest dueling styles, and I will vow to the do the same. Do you agree as well, Edo?”

“Of course. Only an honest dueling style can…” His smile changed, closer to the one he wore in the arena. “Well, you wouldn’t accept anything less from me, Kaiser. Let’s see what this tournament reveals.”

A slow nod, and then Ryo stepped away, parting the remnants of that surging crowd. Edo moved to his side, already saying something with a curved smirk and his hands shoved in his pockets, and Ryo listened with his head inclined, that proud line of his posture altered, changed.

Huh.

"Judai."

"Hmm? What's up?"

"Remind me to buy you a suit. The two of them, they're outclassing us, and I won't stand for that."

The diamond pattern of Edo's dress shirt even had the same navy blue as Ryo's jacket. Damn.

Judai laughed, and his calloused fingers tightened their grip, playful like the grin he wore so easily. "Ah, we have our own style. Try not to overthink it, okay?"

"...Whatever. Let's get out of here," Manjoume muttered, and Judai just laughed again, that starlight effect still there, hanging in place.

He really was beautiful.

Maybe this was already the pinnacle, the greatest sight.

"Can I kiss you?"

Manjoume stiffened, his next breath catching. Around them were so many lights, delicate and casting soft shapes on every surface, on the side of Judai's face. "I… I-Idiot, are you…messing with me?"

The grip changed as Judai moved, standing in front of him. A galaxy of moving lights, and Judai was the brightest thing within it, Yubel the parting motes of green-orange. “Do you want me to ask you again?”

“Y-You’re such a…” Manjoume sighed, aware that his hands were shaking. Judai waited for him to continue, and, fuck, what _else_ could his answer be? “Yes, you can, and…don’t make me wait.”

“But you’re sure it’s fine, right? There are a lot of people around, so…”

“Judai.”

“Hmm… Maybe this isn’t a good idea after all…”

“Judai.”

That smile said it all, Judai swinging their joined hands. His palm was warm. “Although, it might be more exciting if you kissed me instead, and-”

Tangling his fingers in Judai’s jacket, Manjoume did just that, although the kiss didn’t last long at all. He burst out laughing the same time Judai did.

\---

And-

\---

And after that tournament with its many highs, those jewel-like moments that could only happen within the current of an arena and on a stage filled with lights, Manjoume woke up yet-again in his too-small Fortunis apartment to the sound of Judai in the kitchen, talking to himself and making those pan-meets-counter sounds at 7-something in the morning.

It shouldn’t have made him smile.

Manjoume threw an Ojama Yellow shirt over his head, using his free hand to shove his hair into place, and then he opened the door. Had the little fluffball been corporal, he would’ve tripped over Rescue Rabbit, probably knocking its ever-present goggles off. On its haunches, the spirit stared up at him, and it didn’t take the full genius of Manjoume Thunder to figure out that the yellow bandana held with its large front teeth belonged to Ojama Red.

“Why do you…? Urgh, whatever,” Manjoume mumbled, smacking his forehead with his palm. “Just hurry up and give it back before I get a headache.”

Rescue Rabbit’s ears wiggled, its already-puffy cheeks growing even bigger.

“I-I don’t _care_ what Red said to you. Look, don’t get our positions confused. _I’m_ in charge here, so do what I say.”

More wiggling, and then the rabbit bounced away, in the direction of where a bunch of snickering Ojamas were watching Ojama Red blankly stare at the television. Evidently, the program was distracting enough for that troublemaker not to notice Rescue Rabbit’s prank.

One crisis averted, and Manjoume’s schedule hadn’t even started yet. Misako’s morning messages were already filling his phone: a photoshoot shoved back until the afternoon, a conference call about his next fansign added in for later that night. Clicking the screen off, he dropped his phone on the couch, as there were more important matters for Manjoume Thunder, now a member of the world’s top ten ranked duelists, to attend to.

Over their videocalls, Sho would describe his kitchen as, quote, ‘a total mess’. Then again, Sho was a biased person, and therefore Manjoume did not take his criticisms seriously. Of course, there were _some_ less-than-ideal features, like the chipped countertop by the sink, which Manjoume suspected was Yubel’s fault but had no evidence for. Plus, because his only human roommate had a habit of never putting things back in the drawers they came from, Manjoume could _never_ find anything on his own, much to the amusement of those ever-present spirits, that group of freeloaders who gave unnecessary commentary with unearned confidence.

Although, this morning he had an assistant, of sorts. “Oi, where’s my Ojama mug?”

“The new one?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh… Hold on. Just…give me a sec.” With absolute concentration, Judai was angling a frying pan, and the disembodied hand in front of him, its scaled fingers gleaming, was contorted around his cellphone. A tutorial was paused. “Yubel, it’s not supposed to do that, is it?”

“Hmm… I don’t believe so.”

“Maybe you should go back a few seconds,” Judai said, and Manjoume, prepared to wait this out, dragged out a chair with his foot. When Judai eventually sat down, Yubel’s other hand materialized to pour hot water into the Ojama mug, Yellow’s toothy grin embossed on one side.

“In the words of a great alchemist,” Judai began smoothly, as if that same alchemist wasn’t currently trapped inside a flea-infested cat, “it’s not a failure when an experiment gives an unwanted result. The real failure is not being curious enough to experiment in the first place.”

“One,” Manjoume answered, holding up a finger for emphasis, “that doesn’t make any sense. Two, and more _importantly_ , are you trying to tell me that this egg… _thing_ will be disgusting?”

It looked like tamagoyaki, but that’s where the resemblance ended, and Yubel dutifully handed Manjoume his tea after he had swallowed a piece, his expression set to neutral.

“So… What’s your verdict?”

“In the words of a great duelist, possibly the best of his generation,” Manjoume began, pausing for dramatic effect, “there are some things in this world that should not be fused together. Ever.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Did…you actually follow the tutorial for…whatever this is?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of?” Manjoume repeated, and Judai’s laughter reached a nervous pitch, his arms behind his head.

“W-Well, the ingredients were kind of boring, so I…might have put my own spin on it.”

“For the record,” Yubel interjected, a wing shimmering tangible before the rest of their body followed, the transformation rippling down from the highest scale, “I suggested we follow the tutorial _exactly_. Alas, an adventurous heart is difficult to satiate.”

“Even your soulmate agrees with me,” Manjoume said, triumphant, and Judai just laughed again, now a brighter sound.

It was nice.

“When’s your schedule start?”

“A few hours,” he replied, grinning as he watched Judai straighten, a shard of gold turning close to the black that ringed his irises. “What? Think you can take me on again? Just try it, and I’ll shatter such arrogance.”

Judai shrugged, and his next words were lower, taunting. “If it means you’ll duel me right now, you can have whatever you want.”

“We’ll see if you’re still so composed after my victory.”

“Okay, _that_ was a cool line,” Judai said, and then he was all smiles and waving hands, quickly clearing the table with some assistance from Yubel. The spirit hummed, their own cup of tea cooling by the window. One of Kaiba Corp’s near-indestructible tablets was lying on the coffee table in the next room, and it had only taken two days of Manjoume loudly mentioning the online library before the device itself had gone ‘missing.’ He had caught the winged culprit curled up in the corner of his office and tapping eagerly at the screen.

Safe to say, he now had the perfect comeback for the next time Yubel called him ‘ungrateful,’ ‘pompous,’ ‘self-obsessed,’ or anything _else_ that he found annoying. There was a long list.

“Can I go first?” Judai asked.

“Knock yourself out.”

Drumming his fingers on the table, Judai considered his cards. His hair was a complete mess. His red t-shirt had a hole by the collar, its loose threads over the line of his collarbone. Last night, while eating take-out and watching reruns of the Cornucopia Revolution Cup, Judai had suddenly blurted out that he wanted to get a tattoo, rolling up his sleeve and running a hand over his forearm. The flashes of the television had changed the colours of his eyes, and panels of blue-green had traced the high points of his face, extending down to his knuckles, to his long fingers. He had then continued with a quintessential Yuki Judai sentence. “Although I still don’t know about the details, like the placement or the design.”

For awhile now, Judai had been filling the margins of their scoring sheets with different images than flag-waving Ojamas and heroic Neo-Spacians. Some were forked, sleek shapes that reminded him of Yubel’s spread hands, tapering into talons. All were done so lightly. All were just quick shifts of a mechanical pencil over creased paper, the edges of those shapes cutting through take-out items or telephone numbers. All were done with a fleeting concentration, one that Manjoume found himself silent through.

It was a different kind of happiness than the one they had found on a stage together, raising his arms with Judai beaming at his side.

It was overwhelming, and it was his in this moment. A captive, he watched Judai run a finger over his drawn cards. The first turn would happen soon.

An assortment of wide-eyed spirits had settled in on the ‘sidelines,’ a group of tail-wagging beast-type monsters claiming the adjacent counter while those with wings settled on top of the cabinets, their warbles soft. The Dark Scorpions were hashing out the rules of some new bet in the living room, their voices carrying, the same with their laughter. An enthusiastic Ojama Yellow bounced on Manjoume’s right knee, the others flopping onto the table and arguing with each other about nothing. More and more spirits phased into existence, fairy wings beating in his peripheral vision. Translucent scales passed over the tiles below.

Together, these spirits were his strays, and Judai smiled when he looked up, Winged Kuriboh high on his shoulder.

“Are you ready for this?”

Of course he was, and then Judai played the first card.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Assorted notes.
> 
> Master/Servant Routine: I think this is from episode 138. Basically, Edo and Ryo have this act going on to lure in the Supreme King’s roaming guards that involves Edo, the servant, leading them into a house and having Ryo, the master, dispatch one of them. Edo, what…are you doing…?
> 
> Pair Duel: Because I watched most of Arc-V in, like, a month, I thought it would be fun to use a not-so-common format from the GX canon in a GX fic (I mean, there are some tag team duels and such, mostly in season 2). Also, given that Ryo is ridiculously stubborn in episode 163 when it comes to ‘staying in bed and recovering’, I thought it would be, errr, somewhat in-character for him to push himself whenever Sho’s not around to be a pacifying presence. Hard cut to Sho relaxing at home or something and then turning on the tv and promptly spilling tea on himself. Tragic. 
> 
> Fubuki??: The fact that Ryo and Fubuki are friends is endlessly funny to me. Considering that Fubuki himself isn’t a pro duelist in this fic, I thought it would be…interesting, if nothing else, for him and Ryo to team up and enter random tournaments. I mean, Fubuki would have fun with the costumes. 
> 
> Closing Notes: Thanks again for the support. I will (eventually) go back and edit the chapters for grammar and consistency, as they are a little messy at the moment! I had far too much fun working on this, even if the word count is still…unbelievable to me. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think of this fic! 
> 
> I’m also active on Twitter ([@inserttt](https://twitter.com/inserttt)), so feel free to message me about anything.
> 
> Again, thank you all. I wish you the best!


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